#Fire engineering solutions

[screambirdscreaming]

At the bus stop one time there was a gaggle of preschoolers waiting to catch the bus for a field trip day, and someone walked past with a couple of friendly little dogs, to great general delight.

But after a little bit, the dogs were getting overwhelmed, and the preschoolers were gently coaxed to back off so the person with the dogs could continue on. Specifically, one of the preschool teachers said, "Sometimes, when you're small, being surrounded by big people can be a bit scary and overwhelming. Even if they are friendly."

This was recieved as great wisdom: after all, the preschoolers were also small, and understood how scary and overwhelming big people could be! And the dogs were indeed even smaller than the preschoolers, so it made sense.

What was funny and charming was that, upon absorbing and reflecting on this wisdom, they all felt the need to tell it to one another. In tones of great insight, they turned to one another and said, "Did you know? Sometimes when you are small, being surrounded by big people can be scary and overwhelming! Even if they are friendly!" Back and forth, without any particular concern that they were all saying the same thing. Have reached comprehension of an insight, it must be shared!

I must say that this behavior is less charming in tumblr users than in preschoolers. Not least because tumblr users, having gained a little analytical skill to misuse, insist on Summarizing and Generalizing and Unifying the insights they repeat, quickly turning any interesting new information into formulaic dogmatic mush.

[simulanissolutions]

In today’s rapidly evolving technological landscape, Metaverse technology is ushering in new dimensions for industries worldwide. As businesses adopt immersive digital environments for training, simulations, and customer experiences, one metaverse company in India is truly making its mark — Simulanis. This company specializes in creating cutting-edge metaverse development solutions and virtual reality (VR) simulators, transforming industries from fire safety to pharmaceutical training.

[brightburnsolutions]

BrightBurn Solutions

[jjinno]

BIM Services in Pune, India: Revolutionizing Construction and Infrastructure

Introduction

Building Information Modeling (BIM) has emerged as a transformative technology in the architecture, engineering, and construction (AEC) industries. By enabling detailed 3D modeling and comprehensive data management, BIM facilitates efficient planning, design, construction, and management of projects. Pune, a rapidly growing city in India, is witnessing significant urban development and industrial expansion, making BIM services indispensable for its infrastructure projects.

This article explores the concept of BIM, its importance, applications, benefits, and why Pune is becoming a hub for BIM services in India.

What Is BIM?

Building Information Modeling is a digital representation of a building’s physical and functional characteristics. BIM goes beyond 3D modeling, integrating information on cost, scheduling, maintenance, and operations, making it a vital tool for all project stakeholders.

Key Features of BIM

3D Visualization: Provides realistic models of structures before construction.

Data Integration: Includes information on materials, energy efficiency, and lifecycle.

Collaboration Platform: Facilitates communication among architects, engineers, and contractors.

Clash Detection: Identifies and resolves design conflicts before construction.

Importance of BIM in Construction

BIM has revolutionized construction by addressing traditional inefficiencies and reducing errors. Its adoption leads to:

Accurate Planning: BIM models provide precise estimates of materials and costs.

Improved Collaboration: Centralized data enhances coordination between teams.

Sustainability: Enables energy-efficient designs and resource optimization.

Risk Mitigation: Identifies potential issues in the planning phase.

Applications of BIM Services

BIM services are versatile and find application across various sectors:

1. Architectural Design

Creates detailed 3D models to visualize and refine designs.

Facilitates innovative and sustainable architectural solutions.

2. Structural Engineering

Provides accurate analysis of load-bearing elements.

Ensures stability and safety of structures.

3. MEP (Mechanical, Electrical, and Plumbing)

Integrates MEP systems into the building model.

Optimizes energy efficiency and system performance.

4. Infrastructure Development

Supports large-scale projects like bridges, roads, and railways.

Improves lifecycle management and maintenance planning.

5. Facility Management

Offers data on maintenance schedules and operational costs.

Ensures efficient use of building resources post-construction.

Why BIM Services Are Crucial in Pune

Pune’s growth as a smart city and industrial hub has spurred the need for advanced construction practices. BIM services are pivotal for the city’s development due to:

1. Urban Expansion

Rapid urbanization demands precise planning and resource management.

BIM aids in designing sustainable housing, commercial complexes, and public infrastructure.

2. Industrial Growth

Manufacturing and IT sectors require modern facilities with integrated systems.

BIM ensures seamless construction and long-term operational efficiency.

3. Smart City Projects

Pune is a part of India’s Smart Cities Mission, emphasizing digitalization and sustainability.

BIM supports smart infrastructure, traffic management, and energy optimization.

4. Green Building Initiatives

The city’s focus on eco-friendly construction aligns with BIM’s capabilities.

BIM helps in achieving green building certifications and reducing carbon footprints.

Technologies Powering BIM Services

BIM leverages cutting-edge technologies to enhance its capabilities:

1. 3D, 4D, and 5D BIM

3D BIM: Visualizes designs in three dimensions.

4D BIM: Adds time-related data for construction scheduling.

5D BIM: Incorporates cost management information.

2. Cloud Computing

Enables real-time collaboration among stakeholders.

Ensures data accessibility from anywhere, anytime.

3. Virtual Reality (VR) and Augmented Reality (AR)

Allows immersive visualization of projects.

Facilitates better understanding and decision-making.

4. Artificial Intelligence (AI)

Predicts project outcomes and optimizes designs.

Automates routine tasks, improving efficiency.

Benefits of BIM Services

1. Enhanced Collaboration

Centralized data ensures seamless communication among project teams.

2. Cost Efficiency

Accurate estimates and reduced errors lower construction costs.

3. Time Savings

Streamlined workflows accelerate project completion.

4. Improved Quality

Detailed models and simulations enhance design accuracy.

5. Sustainability

Enables energy-efficient designs and resource optimization.

BIM Workflow

The BIM process involves several stages:

Conceptualization: Initial designs and feasibility studies.

Detailed Modeling: Creating comprehensive 3D models with integrated data.

Analysis and Optimization: Simulating performance and refining designs.

Construction Execution: Using BIM data to guide on-site activities.

Facility Management: Leveraging BIM for maintenance and operations post-construction.

Challenges in BIM Implementation

Despite its benefits, BIM adoption faces challenges:

High Initial Costs: Investment in software and training can be expensive.

Skill Gap: Requires expertise in BIM tools and methodologies.

Data Management: Handling vast amounts of data can be complex.

Resistance to Change: Traditional practices often hinder adoption.

BIM Service Providers in Pune

Pune is home to several reputed firms offering BIM services. These companies specialize in various aspects such as:

Architectural modeling.

MEP design.

Structural analysis.

Infrastructure planning.

Their expertise ensures the successful execution of projects across residential, commercial, and industrial domains.

Case Studies: Successful BIM Projects in Pune

1. Residential Complex Development

A large housing project in Pune used BIM for:

Efficient space utilization.

Cost-effective material procurement.

Achieving green building certification.

2. IT Park Construction

BIM facilitated:

Integration of HVAC and electrical systems.

Real-time monitoring and clash detection.

Timely project delivery within budget.

Future of BIM Services in Pune

As Pune continues to evolve, the role of BIM will expand in areas such as:

Digital Twins: Creating virtual replicas of buildings for real-time monitoring.

Smart Infrastructure: Supporting IoT-enabled and AI-driven systems.

Sustainability Goals: Enhancing energy efficiency and environmental compliance.

Conclusion

BIM services are revolutionizing the construction landscape in Pune, aligning with the city’s growth and sustainability objectives. From detailed modeling to lifecycle management, BIM empowers stakeholders to execute projects efficiently and cost-effectively.

As technology advances and the demand for smart, sustainable infrastructure grows, BIM will continue to play a pivotal role in shaping Pune’s future. For businesses and developers seeking to stay ahead in this dynamic environment, adopting BIM is not just an option but a necessity.

[noohyah]

[SOLVED] 2017 Ford Edge Coolant Leak: What Should I Do?

In recent years, owners of the 2017 Ford Edge have been reporting a specific issue – a coolant leak.  This problem, while not uncommon in vehicles, can lead to serious engine damage if not addressed promptly.  In this article, we will delve into the issue of the “2017 Ford Edge Coolant Leak”, exploring its causes, effects, and most importantly, what you should do if you find yourself facing this…

[daydreamgoddess14]

I'll do that thing 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader established but secret 🤫

It's too damn hot, the AC is broken, and your boyfriend is a furnace. But there are solutions.

Bucky Masterlist

word count: 1.1k

warnings: pussy slapping, Bucky's vibranium hand, fingering... just a bit of heatwave filth, really. Encouraged by the gif above, darling @sunday-bug ☀️ and my other feral beauties in the gc.

There was sweat in places you couldn't even begin to imagine.

It pooled in the small of your back, in the valley of your breasts, the crook of your elbow, the backs of your knees, behind your ear.

“Engineers said next week,” Bob huffed, flopping down on the floor. Even the marble tiles were hot to the touch.

“I'll be dead by next week,” Lena groaned.

“Think I'm dead now.” You sighed. You shifted an inch to the left, peeling your leg off the one next to you.

The leg moved an inch closer.

You moved another inch away.

When it went to move again, you slapped your palm down hard on their bare leg.

“Ow! Shit!”

“Buck, you're like a furnace. Stop putting your leg against me,” you whined.

“How is every engineer in City busy?” Alexei demanded. “I fix it!”

“No!” Half a dozen voices rang out in unison.

“I'll fix it,” Bucky announced, standing up.

For you, the relief was immediate.

“You?” Ava asked, highly skeptical.

“Me. Fixed Sam's boat. What's an AC unit gonna do?”

“Blow up?” You shrugged.

“Better come with me then, in case it explodes.”

“No way.”

“It'll be cooler in the basement?”

“Deal.”

Across the room, John nudged Ava and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Have fun!”

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“In this heat?” Lena grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Fuck you, Walker!” You gave him the middle finger as you followed Bucky out of the room and into the elevator.

“You've gotta stop touching me in front of them,” you said as soon as the doors were closed. “They're gonna know.”

“They already do, babe.” He shrugged.

The basement was cooler, barely.

You found the hopeless AC unit wheezing and whirring. Bucky looked around it, his eyebrows pinched together.

Whatever this was, it hadn't been going on for long. Weeks and months of tense sparring sessions, flirty comments, and open ogling had culminated in him turning up at your door one night and barely putting you down since.

You hopped up to sit on a crate while he ‘worked’. In reality, it was a chance to ogle.

“Can feel you watching me, sweetheart. Something you need?”

“In this heat? Come near me and I'll bite you.”

“Promise?” As he turned to ask the question, he yanked a hose out of the unit.

With a violent hiss, a plume of freezing mist streamed out. “Oh. Shit.” He turned back to the unit.

“Want me to hold anything?” You peered around the unit. While you were distracted, he placed his left palm on the back of your neck.

The vibranium was ice cold against your hot, sticky skin. “Ohh fuck -” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He stepped behind you, replacing his hand with his mouth. His hand, still cold, pulled the neck of your cami down and pinched your quickly pebbling nipple.

Your head fell back onto his shoulder, giving him a perfect view down your body. Your back arched into his touch.

“Still too hot?” He murmured against your neck.

“Mmm, why? You gonna cool me down?”

“Gonna try,” he removed his hand, warmed by your skin, and put it back in the path of the freezing steam.

“S'too hot, Buck,” you insisted, moving out of his hold. Your body was on fire.

“C'mon, I'll do that thing?” He held you tighter, his voice pleading. “Need to touch you, baby.”

The fog hissed, curling around his wrist.

He dragged the cold vibranium fingers back along your collarbone, then lower, tracing the swell of your breast until you gasped. The contrast made your skin pebble under his touch - hot and flushed, meeting ice cold metal.

“That better?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You didn’t answer. Not with words, just a low, breathy moan.

He circled your nipple with the very tips of his fingers, letting the cold settle in, sharp enough to make you shiver - then cupped your breast in full. A soft whimper escaped you, hips twitching as heat pooled low in your belly.

“Still too warm,” he said, almost to himself.

His hand slipped lower. Past your stomach. Down between your thighs.

The first brush of cold fingers against your slick heat made your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you hissed, breath catching.

“That’s it,” he murmured, dragging the metal through your folds again - slower this time, letting you feel the contrast between hot and cold.

Then - a sharp, deliberate slap.

It wasn’t hard, just sudden - a stinging smack of cold against the wet heat of your pussy, and your hips bucked instinctively, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

“Jesus,” you gasped, “do that again.”

He chuckled low in your ear. “Told you.”

Another slap, a little firmer this time. The sound of it, sharp and obscene, sent a shockwave straight through your gut. Then his fingers were between your folds, stroking with slow, steady pressure - cool vibranium rubbing where you needed it most.

“You’re soaking,” he growled. “All that heat getting to you?”

“You,” you whispered, grinding into his hand. “It’s you, Bucky, fuck -”

One finger slid inside - impossibly cold, your body clenching around him eagerly, greedy for it. Then another. He moved them in slow, curling thrusts while his thumb circled your clit in soft, frosty sweeps.

His teeth grazed your neck, his right hand held your hip steady while his left had you seeing god.

It was overwhelming. Heat and cold, sharp slaps and gentle strokes - your nerves couldn’t tell which was coming next.

When he smacked you again, right against your clit this time, your whole body jerked, your thighs trembling. He held you up against him, your back slicked with sweat against his broad chest.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, hips grinding helplessly against him, pressing hard against your ass. “Don’t stop, please -”

“Not planning to, sweetheart.”

His fingers pumped faster, curling with every thrust, the heel of his hand pressing just right. And when he slapped you again, just once more, timed perfectly, it tipped you over the edge.

You came hard, body arching, a cry caught in your throat as everything clenched and broke open.

He held you through it, murmuring something against your neck you couldn’t even hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

“Oh god,” you breathed heavily.

With an obscene pop, he removed his hand from your aching pussy. He brought his digits to your mouth and you licked them clean.

He turned you gently, leaning you against the AC unit, pulled your top back up, and placed the softest kiss to your lips.

He weaved his hand through the freezing steam one more time and placed it between your shoulder blades. The cool relief made you sigh, the memory of his cold touch made your hips jerk against him, still hard.

“You not done, baby?”

Despite the heat, you arched into him, winding your arms around his neck.

“Not even close. Come take a cold shower with me?”

“Shower?” he grinned, gripping your thighs. “Nah, I want to make you sweat harder first.”

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[reasonsforhope]

"In the Canary Islands, in Barcelona, and in Chile, a unique fog catcher design is sustaining dry forests with water without emissions, or even infrastructure.

Replicating how pine needles catch water, the structure need only be brought on-site and set up, without roads, powerlines, or irrigation channels.

Fog catching is an ancient practice—renamed “cloud milking” by an EU-funded ecology project on the Canary Islands known as LIFE Nieblas (nieblas means fog).

“In recent years, the Canaries have undergone a severe process of desertification and we’ve lost a lot of forest through agriculture. And then in 2007 and 2009, as a result of climate change, there were major fires in forested areas that are normally wet,” said Gustavo Viera, the technical director of the publicly-funded project in the Canaries.

The Canaries routinely experience blankets of fog that cloak the islands’ slopes and forests, but strong winds made fog-catching nets an unfeasible solution. In regions such as the Atacama Desert in Chile or the Atlas Mountains of North Africa, erecting nets that capture moisture particles out of passing currents of fog is a traditional practice.

LIFE Nieblas needed a solution that could resist powerful winds, and to that end designed wind chime-like rows of artificial pine needles, which are also great at plucking moisture from the air. However, unlike nets or palms, they efficiently let the wind pass through them.

The water is discharged without any electricity. There are no irrigation channels, and no machinery is needed to transport the structures. The natural course of streams and creeks need not be altered, nor is there a need to drill down to create wells. The solution is completely carbon-free.

WATER IN THE DESERTS: 

China Announces Completion of a 1,800-Mile Green Belt Around the World’s Most-Hostile Desert

Billions of People Could Benefit from This Breakthrough in Desalination That Ensures Freshwater for the World

Scientists Perfecting New Way to Turn Desert Air into Water at Much Higher Yields

Sahara Desert Is Turning Green Amid Unusual Rains in Parts of North Africa

Indian Engineers Tackle Water Shortages with Star Wars Tech in Kerala

In the ravine of Andén in Gran Canaria, a 35.8-hectare (96 acres) mixture of native laurel trees irrigated by the fog catchers enjoys a survival rate of 86%, double the figure of traditional reforestation.

“The Canaries are the perfect laboratory to develop these techniques,” said Vicenç Carabassa, the project’s head scientist, who works for the Center for Ecological Research and Forestry Applications at the University of Barcelona. “But there are other areas where the conditions are optimal and where there is a tradition of water capture from fog, such as Chile and Morocco.”

In Chile’s Coquimbo province, the town of Chungungo is collecting around 250 gallons a day from a combination of locally-made fog catchers and LIFE Nieblas’ pine needle design, the Guardian reports."

-via Good News Network, December 30, 2024

[windvexer]

Advice for if your practice is feeling stressful or unfulfilling (that isn't 'just stop practicing')

Before you expand: long text post!

I think it's interesting that the first line of advice stressed and unhappy practitioners often receive is 'stop practicing! take a break,' because besides a breather this doesn't actually do anything. When a person is done with that break they're still going to have the same stressful, unfulfilling practice they did before.

Stop practicing is useful advice for someone who is about to deep-fry their brain in uncontrolled Witch Fire. It's useful advice for someone who experiences unexplainable catastrophe every time they engage in magic.

I'm not sure it's useful advice for people who want to practice and are actively seeking help figuring out how.

So here are some ideas. Feel free to add your own.

If your practice has too much of a time load:

Scrape over-engineered ritual. Examine ritual formats. Are you spending a majority of your practice time engaging in elaborate ritual? Where can that be paired down?

Swap ritual for enchantments. If ritual performs an action (laying a compass), can you substitute for that ritual action by making enchanted objects that take less time to activate (enchanted compass altar cloth)?

Minimize ingredients. If you regularly perform spells that require lengthy enchantment of ingredients, can you use fewer ingredients to achieve the same results? If you're using more than 3 correspondences for any spell, is this because you are wise in your own ways, or because you just feel that more is merrier?

Mash rituals together. Do you have a string of rituals, even small ones, that you perform one after the other? Is it possible to reorganize these so they're all done at once, in the same ritual? For example, setting out an offering to the gods, a different offering for the ancestors, another for helper spirits, etc. Can you combine these all into one single offering?

Check for over-tending. Is it possible that you're repeating magical acts, like feeding wards and cleansing, more often than you need to? Did you arrive at this schedule through trial and error, or did you just guess this is how often you should do them?

Check for your own levelup: spell maintenance. If it's been a while since you re-evaluated your ritual/offering/maintenance schedule, your increase in skills may mean you need to do these tasks less often to achieve the same result.

Check for your own levelup: techniques and routines. Some techniques, like carefully entering trance, grounding, and centering, are like training wheels that wear ruts into our paths of magic. As we improve in skill, old rituals and techniques that have been carefully couched in these helpful devices may become ingrained in us so that we can perform them in almost any state of mind, much faster and easier than we could before. Experiment with any technique you've been doing for a while and see if you still need to perform time-consuming meditative or focusing techniques before you can perform the skill.

Be reasonable with your own goals. I find most 'laywitches' give themselves daily and weekly schedules that would put actual cloistered monks to shame. Did your spirits tell you they expect daily offerings, or did you decide on that an run with it? Where are you overcompensating and overexerting in your path when nobody, including yourself, asked you to?

If your practice has too much of a work load:

Much of the advice of the prior section applies. Also,

Just work less. Are you putting in 100% effort when 20% or 30% would do? Are you treating every act of magic like a performance review that will control the outcome of your magical career? I'm not being sarcastic; an actual solution to your path being too much work is to just put in less effort. If you've never tried this you may be shocked at how effective magic can be when you're only doing what needs to be done.

Find simpler, more reasonable stuff. Find new techniques, and spell and ritual formats that are paired down to fit the amount of effort that's reasonable to exert for any given magical act. If you can't work with correspondences without a lengthy act of activation, find a way to cast simple spells that doesn't rely on correspondences.

Limit research and prep. Ask yourself how much research you reasonably need to get started on any given project. Remember that a huge amount of a witch's education is experiential; you will probably never know enough until you've already done it three or four times.

Be goal-oriented; prioritize actions. Ask yourself if you've set arbitrary workloads before you can get started with anything, such as forcing yourself to write artistic grimoire pages before you're allowed to perform a ritual you're interested in.

Learn skills to help prioritize actions. If your practice is consumed by acts of upkeep such as cleansing and empowering objects, focus on learning energy sensing so you can reasonably determine whether or not an object actually needs to be cleansed or empowered.

Administrate your own practice - what can go on the back burner? Make a list of all your active ongoing projects and maintenance, including upkeep of energy batteries, spells that require maintenance, and situations you want to change and are casting spells on. Prioritize them; see which ones you can set aside.

Restructure your projects to minimize maintenance. Consolidate spells and projects where possible. For example, if you have multiple protection spells for many people that require upkeep, condense them all onto a protection altar so you can feed and tend to them all at once.

Work in batch and bulk. See where you can do batch work to lighten your load. You can bulk enchant candles and incense, instead of enchanting incense every time you do a ritual. You can enchant oils, waters, and incense to feed your spells, taking time out of upkeep.

Levelup your charging and maintenance skills. Learn energy work to attach energy tethers to batteries and other important projects so they're able to drink from the wellspring you attach them to, and stay charged.

Scrape routines that don't serve you. Examine any daily routines. Are you doing them because they're helping you, or because you feel like you're supposed to be doing something every day? See if you can replace more intensive daily routines with something less tiring, like a prayer to your path itself.

If your practice feels too silly:

You have a right to privacy. Cocooning is valid. It's fine to take steps to limit who can see and potentially judge your practice. You can keep things to yourself until you're ready.

Tend to your emotional wellness. Self-therapy, in any form you feel comfortable with, can help mitigate the inner eye of judgement.

Reduce your beliefs to palatable doses. Believing in magic for only the duration of your work is perfectly fine. You don't have to 'believe-believe' 24/7. If you're not ready to integrate the belief of magic and spirits into your baseline worldview, don't - you can agree to buy in to those beliefs only while you practice techniques and cast spells, and then put them away the rest of the time.

Scrape stuff you really can't get past. Ask yourself what about your practice feels silly. Are there trappings - like altars, ritual movements, and speaking aloud - that you don't like? Change them. Is the idea that religious faith itself is a bit cringe? Self-therapy (or you know, the regular kind) may be assistive.

Ask for help modifying your process.Is there something very specific about a ritual or technique that you just can't get past, but you don't know how to change it? Research and see what other substitute rituals are available. Ask others and see if they can help you brainstorm.

Embrace the silliness. It's not going anywhere. Believing in your practice and holding it dear and sacred is not the same as being ✨super serious gravitas✨ all the time. There are lots of things about witchcraft, and the acts of the witch, that are silly and make you realize you're doing something ridiculous. I came out here at 2 am after it's been raining to climb down a slippery riverbed to get a branch of a tree that I think is talking to me?? Because some medieval guy said Tuesday is the planet Mars and I think trees talk to me?! Ridiculous. Yet I still love it dearly in a sacred place in my heart. It can be silly and glorious at the same time.

Cast a wider net. See if you're barking up the wrong tree. Traditional Witchcraft, folk magic, lodge magic, chaos magic, eclectic neopaganism... these things are not interchangeable. If you've never explored different traditions, why not give it a go? You might find another path that feels a lot more natural to you. A lot of people fall into a certain path just because they don't know what else they could be doing!

If your practice feels unfulfilling:

What are you doing to bring yourself fulfillment? Why did you get into witchcraft? Make a list of your top 5 reasons (if you have that many). Which techniques, spells, and rituals are you regularly performing are designed to deliver these desires to you? If one of your goals of practicing witchcraft is to 'feel connected,' how often are you performing acts where the only goal is to make you feel connected?

Grow your path deliberately in the direction of your needs. What do you wish you had in your life right now? Is it the feeling of being loved? Inner peace? Feeling like nature is alive and watching you? Look for what techniques and rituals in your practice will bring these things to you. If there are none, find or develop them.

Ask for help and share your feelings. If you work with gods and spirits, do you regularly tell them how you feel about your practice and ask them for help finding fulfillment?

Find contentment in the process. It's vital to find joy in the process. If you have regular routines or upkeep you need to do, how can you modify it so that process in and of itself is satisfying to you? Try considering the visceral element of witchcraft: the words, scents, sounds, moods, and thoughts that you want to experience in your present moment. Witchcraft is experiential: a great deal of the experience you create in the tidepools of routine is under your control.

Contemplate the larger purpose. Some witches do have magical chores and responsibilities they can't or shouldn't shirk. If this is true of you, and you can't modify those routines, try refocusing on why you're doing them and the importance they hold in your path. See if you can find balance elsewhere in your practice that feels rejuvenating; sort of a 'work-play' balance of your own craft.

Set short-term goals you can celebrate. Are you undertaking a lot of 'workout routines' that are designed to basically make you magically buff, or get good at a particular skill, but you're doing them with no endgoal? Try creating short-term goals that excite your sense of wonder or accomplishment. Like, practicing tarot until you can read the Celtic Cross, or practicing energy work until you can make a four-element layered energy shield. Build goalposts for yourself, both in the short and long-term, and celebrate your successes.

Scrape routines you're not doing for any good reason. Are your regular practices things you're doing because they fill you with mystery and wonder, or because you're just pretty sure that's the kind of thing witches do? If you're bored or unfulfilled by a particular routine, consider stopping it altogether, especially if you can't think of any short-term goals that it's helping you work towards. Think about the reasons you got into witchcraft: what practices would help you fulfill those reasons, while also feeling good to practice?

Seek out a likeminded community. A good working group of friends can be invaluable. My close group of witch friends, whom I've been hanging out with for years, started as a Tumblr post asking if anyone wanted to make a small server to study witchcraft. Reach out and see who's out there to study with, talk to, and practice with. It can be loads of fun to do short-term study and practice challenges with friends, and a great way to get feedback and support.

Evaluate your spiritual relationships. Although it can be painful and challenging, sometimes we enter into our paths working with gods and spirits that after some time, we need to move on from. Is it possible your path has become stagnant because you don't want to keep working with a god or spirit that your path has been built around? It may be time to see how you can move on.

When 'take a break' might be helpful advice to heal your practice:

Of course, YMMV :)

'Taking a break' doesn't mean stop being a witch, stop believing in magic, or stop 100% of your practice. It can also mean putting a lot of projects on the back burner, switching to bare-minimum (or below minimum) maintenance, and squashing regular routines.

I'm talking specifically about taking a break in the interest of your own practice - not the conditions under which someone is ""allowed"" to stop practicing witchcraft.

Take a break to rest and let your seeds germinate. 'Fallow periods,' when you have no desire or motivation to practice witchcraft, and when it seems like there's nothing for you to do, are normal. Some witches experience this cyclically, perhaps during certain seasons or when predictable life conditions are met. There's no need to force yourself to practice when it's just not flowing. The snow on your mountaintops needs to melt to replenish your waterways, bestie. There's nothing wrong with you, the sun just isn't out yet.

When you're hitting yourself with a hammer. When something in your practice is triggering or harming you, and stopping will have no consequences, then stopping your practice for a while is probably a good idea. Use the downtime to seek healing or reformat your practice.

To open your life up for necessary work. Not every witch can out-path every problem. Consider taking a break when the problem is something you will have time and energy to work on if not for your regular magical practice.

When you're about to deep-fry your brain with Witch Fire. Consider taking a break when the problem with your practice is that you are practicing too often - such as fatigue due to excessive spellwork, divinatory obsession, trouble staying out of the spirit world (compulsive astral travel), or focus on spirits/magic/the spirit worlds are starting to erode your home, school, or work life.

To let the ripples settle. When you've done so much magic or ritual work that your life is a boat on a stormy sea, and you just need to batten down the hatches for a while and let things settle.

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 3

Masterpost - Ao3

Content warning: This chapter involves depiction of a train derailment and subsequent fire throughout. There is also brief mention of death. I will be putting a brief summary in the description if you prefer not to read this part.

Danny jolts up from his fitful sleep. He’s intangible and invisible before he’s even fully sitting up and he’s in the air before he registers the loud boom that woke him. Any concerns about his bright transformation are made totally irrelevant by the warning sirens blaring in his head.

Wait, no. Those are real sirens.

In the distance, lights are now accompanying the sirens; flashing as they speed down what looks like main street. It’s pretty clear where they’re going too, from the violent orange glow cascading over the tops of the nearby buildings.

I knew it, Danny thinks, flying towards whatever disaster is unfolding. probably it’s stupid to get involved, when he still knows so little about this place, but- well, old habits die hard. It doesn’t take long for the problem to become obvious, and Danny freezes as he struggles to process the scene before him.

The metal carnage is nothing like Danny’s ever seen before; what looks to be a freight train has derailed at the worst possible location, sending its cars careening into the various apartment buildings and stores on the east side of town, and to make matters worse, one of them has clearly crashed straight into the gas station by the freeway, and fire is spreading faster than Danny could have imagined.

Danny can already see two buildings blazing, but he quickly focuses his attention towards the carnage of the train itself. Luckily it’s fairly obvious what direction it was headed, and Danny moves fast, looking for the engine. In ghost form, physical sensations always feel a little more distant but even through that, Danny can feel his heart rabbiting in his chest. Luckily it takes less than a minute to find the engine, but as he approaches it, the presence of death catches in his throat, and he immediately knows it’s a lost cause.

He can’t sense any actual ghosts, though, so instead Danny whips around to stare at the derailed cars. He’s far more used to fighting than he is rescues, but he can hardly just ignore the possibility of people trapped, so he carefully begins phasing through the wreckage, searching and listening for signs of anyone. Already, people are starting to gather outside; both those who were nearby and those who have managed to escape on their own, and Danny is careful to maintain his invisibility as he works. 

Danny’s made it through about half the wreck by the time he spots the firetrucks arriving, he’s pretty certain that nobody’s trapped under any of the cars, and he’s also thinking more clearly. The fire has also gotten worse now, and Danny watches as fully equipped firefighters spill out onto the street, already jumping to work as the fire chief shouts out orders. Some rush to start battling the flames, but others head towards the crowd.

They’re getting headcounts, Danny realizes. It seems so obvious in retrospect, but of course, Danny would have to be visible to check with anyone. And now that they’re here, anything he tries to do in secret would probably just make things harder. There is, of course, an easy solution to that, but- Danny has yet to find any evidence that all the meta stuff is anything but propaganda.

Even as Danny considers the dilemma, he knows what he’s going to do. He’s survived danger before, after all, and if he can keep people from assuming ghost, then he’ll have an advantage on them even if it comes to the worst. Besides, there’s that whole great powers-great responsibility thing, so in a way, it’s kind of his responsibility...

Danny floats out of the wreckage before shifting into visibility, figuring it’s probably polite to approach in their field of sight.

“What can I do to help?” Danny asks, causing most of the crowd to stare in shock. Belatedly he realizes he’s still floating, but actually that’s probably a good thing. Makes it clear he’s a meta right off the bat, at least

“New hero, huh? Powerset?” The man responds promptly, leveling Danny with an even gaze. Probably the lack of shock is a good thing. Probably.

“Uh, flight obviously, enhanced strength as well, and um... The ability to turn people and things intangible?” Danny responds promptly. It’s far from his full set, but he figures those are the most relevant, and keeping most of his tricks under his sleeve makes him feel better about what he’s doing.

“Is the fire gonna hurt you? I’m not sending some kid in there to die of third degree burns or smoke inhalation.” The man frowns, giving Danny the distinct feeling he’s not particularly impressed with Danny’s answer.

“Oh! Yeah, no, I’ll be fine! I like, don’t exactly need to breathe? And I’m fine in extreme heat too, so it shouldn’t be a problem...” Danny trails off and the head firefighter narrows his eyes as he tries not to flinch at the assessing look. To Danny’s right, someone shouts and when he turns to look, he sees a firefighter wave their arm and plant some kind of flag before moving on. No longer paying attention to Danny, the chief walks over and speaks to another firefighter. Danny wonders if he’s been dismissed, but before he can do anything, the chief calls out to him.

“Alright kid, you’re up, I guess,” he says, when Danny walks over. “We don’t know how injured he is, so do not move him, but if you’re strong enough to move this stuff fast and safe, that’ll be a damn good help.” He gestures to the twisted mess that Danny’s pretty sure was the edge of a building. 

Danny nods, stepping forward to examine the rubble. The firefighter that spotted the man points to a couple beams.

“Those beams are protecting him from the worst of it right now, but we’ll need to move them in order to get him out, so you gotta make sure that there’s nothing that’ll fall on him him when you move them.” 

“Righty-o,” Danny says, stepping forward to grab the two support beams he’d pointed too. He carefully examines the rubble collapsed around and over it. It’s sort of like a puzzle, he realizes - not quite the same as fixing his parents tech; certainly nothing here is supposed to be smashed together like that, but-

Danny blinks and refocuses. If he  just moves a few things first, he thinks he can get enough cleared away and just intange the beams. He tries to be fast as he does, without forgetting the emphasis the chief had put on safety, and after a few moments, he’s ready to move the beams. He gets into a good position, and then carefully makes them intangible, ready to react if anything bad happens. When nothing does, he carefully pulls them up and away, watching as the waiting firefighters rush in and start to work on actually extracting the guy.

He watches for a bit as a backboard appears and they begin a very slow and careful process of getting the guy onto it.

“Kid,” the chief calls, pulling Danny’s attention away.The chief guides him towards one of the buildings that’s on fire. “Got two people trapped on the third floor here. The stairs are unsafe, so if you can, get yourself up there, locate them, and get them out.”

Danny nods, not waiting for further instruction. He flies up two floors, and goes straight through the wall with his intangibility. The majority of this building isn’t terribly damaged, but one side has collapsed in on itself so if that’s where the stairs were, he can understand the difficulty. The air inside is already thick with smoke, and he quickly stops breathing, belatedly remembering that he’s supposed to not get smoke inhalation. Luckily, it doesn’t take long to catch the sound of voices, and Danny follows it to a room where two people are huddled next to an open window. Right, that’s a smart way to limit the danger of the smoke.

“Rides here!” Danny announces cheerfully, dropping his intangibility. Both people startle as they spot him, but one recovers relatively quickly.

“Him first,” they say, nodding towards their companion, who definitely looks more dazed.

“Right, here we go!” Danny says, stepping forward, and scooping the person up, and wasting no time flying directly through the building, and down to the waiting paramedics. There’s no stretcher currently available, so Danny gently sets them on the ground away from the worst of the smoke, before flying back to get the other person. They’re already standing up, and waste no time in wrapping their arms around his neck as he picks them up and flies them out to the medics as well.

Danny hardly has time to set the person down, before the chief is pulling him away again. They send him in to save a couple other trapped people, but after that, it sounds like everybody is accounted for, because the chief starts focusing all their energy on putting out the fire, rather than just containing it.

Danny is surprised to find himself pulled into helping with this part too. He gets assigned to a fire attack team, and Danny trails along after the two firefighters as the enter the building and begin to fight the fire from the inside.Occasionally, one of them will point at some piece of wall or ceiling and ask him to check what’s on the other side. He goes where they say, looking for signs of the fire, and when he does spot flames, occasionally tearing stuff down so they can get to it with their fire hose. It’s honestly a fascinating process. Danny’s never been anywhere near a major fire and the fact that the firefighters actually do more damage to the building as they work echoes in Danny’s brain as a morbid refrain.

What they’re doing is clearly working though, because he can actually feel the ambient temperature going down as time goes on. He briefly wonders if he should be trying to use his ice powers when one of his teammates complains about how hot it is, but they have protection, and he doesn’t want to risk any more info on him getting out. And anyways, he’s busy enough just doing his job. By the time they leave the building, Danny is exhausted. The interrupted night’s sleep is making itself known, alongside the surprising realization that Danny has actually worked harder tonight than he ever has before.

He lets himself half-collapse against a wall beside one of the fire trucks, once they finish their work putting out the fire. Beside him, his teammates are divesting themselves of their gear. it’s funny, Danny was anxious about revealing himself at first, but this whole night - and Danny belatedly realizes the sun is beginning to drift above the horizon now - he’s not been scared at all. Sure he’s been worried; with people in danger he’s hardly going to feel good, but in the last few hours he’s both worked harder than he has in any of his fights, and he’s done it without feeling terrible. Now, with just everyone accounted for and just about all of them either fine or in the hands of doctors, he feels odd.

It’s not a bad feeling or anything, kind of like when he successfully beats a hard level in a video game, or how he used to feel when he finished science projects in middle school.

Satisfaction, he realizes. And that’s what it is, though it’s far stronger than any version of it that he’s ever felt before. He does have a lot to feel proud of too. He  helped, even though he wasn’t sure it was safe to, and he might’ve actually saved somebody’s life tonight.

“You did good, kid.” One of his teammates says, echoing Danny’s thoughts. He startles a bit, feels himself flushing, and then in his embarrassment, he feels himself tumble over into a full blush. It’s always felt more embarrassing blushing in his ghost form. The way his skin actually glows with the green tinge is just so obviously inhuman, and he tries to avoid, tries his best to seem normal and alive, even when he’s a ghost.

Of course, these people don’t know he’s a ghost, but from what he’s seen, most of the heroes out there at least look functionally human, and he waits for the firefighters around him to freak out at the reminder that he isn’t even remotely one of them.

“Damn,” one whistles. Green glow is a new one. Makes your freckles real cute though.” The others laugh, and the other of his teammates steps forward to pat him gently on the back.

“Stop embarrassing my new favorite hero,” the chief says, walking up to join them. “You gotta name?” 

“Oh, yeah!” Danny answers, desperate for a distraction from this line of conversation. “I’m Danny!”

“Danny,” the chief responds flatly. he almost sounds exasperated, though Danny can’t imagine why, unless...

Unless that absolutely sounds like he just introduced himself normal and they think he’s a hero and he sounds like a dumbass without a secret identity, which- technically isn’t exactly wrong. 

“Yup!” Danny says, trying to make it sound intentional. “Danny Phantom at your service! Y’know cause of the intangibility and like. It just sounded good?” There. That sounds plausible. If he actually does end up having to be a hero, though, he’ll probably need a different first name. If he gets a civilian identity, that is.

“Well, Phantom,” the chief grins, that same assessing look from before back, but noticeably more relaxed now that there’s no immediate danger. “We’re damn grateful for all your help, and if you need anything you come let us know, alright?”

“Yeah, one of his teammates echoes. “You’re an honorary firefighter now, you should come hang out at the station sometime!” A couple of the others echo the sentiment. It’s surprisingly kind, and Danny smiles at the unrelenting wave of welcome.

“I’ll think about it,” he offers uncertainly. “For now, I think I ought to go back to sleep for a few more hours.”

“That sounds like a good idea, Danny,” the chief says. “Just make sure to get something to eat first. You’ve burned a lot of calories today.”

“Yeah, will do,” Danny offers an awkward salute to the man, and then, before he can actually fall asleep standing up, he takes off to hunt down a good spot for a nap.

[grayandthyme]

something like easy ; chapter 1

masterlist | next chapter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader synopsis: in a small Texas town in early 2002, a young English teacher is barely keeping it together. her car is barely drivable, her students are restless, and her lesson plans are falling flat. though, a shitty car leads to an unexpected carpool arrangement with her next-door neighbor, Joel Miller, a single father with a quiet drawl and a soft spot for his daughter. warnings/tags: each chapter will have separate tags. no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'ma'am' on occasion, domestic fluff, slow burn, tension, maternal fluff, bonding over sarah, dialogue heavy.

w/c 8.3k

2002

Coffee pot. Turn it on. Turn on the damn coffee pot.

Shit—grab the other bag. Lipstick. Where’s the lipstick? Did you brush your hair? What were you going to pack for lunch—too late now. Way too late. Shit. Coffee. Just turn on the fucking coffee pot.

You were late. Not just a little late—thirty solid minutes behind. You should’ve left long ago. You should’ve been in the classroom by now, setting up, printing handouts, doing everything you promised yourself you’d stay on top of. But the alarm had gone off at five, and your hand found the snooze button. Again. And again…. Six, maybe seven times.

You tore through the house like a storm, leaving disarray in your wake—papers, bags, a half-eaten granola bar. Coffee splashed into a tumbler. Fingers dragged through tangled hair. You shoved open the car door, tossed everything inside, slid into the seat, and went to start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it... ?

Brrssshk.

The engine tried. It coughed. It gave up. No ignition. Just that hollow, broken sound.

No. No, no, no. The car can’t be dead. Not today. Did you leave a light on? Is it the battery? Or the engine? It's practically an antique—twenty years old, if not older.

Fucking antique.

You slammed your palms against the steering wheel, more theatrics than solution, but it was something. Something to relieve the stress coiled in your stomach.

It wasn’t even eight o’clock. And everything had already come undone.

"Trouble?”

The voice was low, rough around the edges—one of those gravel-laced laughs that came from somewhere deep in the chest. You glanced toward the next driveway over.

“Been a hell of a morning,” you said, eyes landing on your neighbor—and his daughter.

Sarah. She’d been in your class since the semester started, the quiet one who always raised her hand and turned things in early. You recognized her face the moment roll was called back in January.

The girl next door. Her dad was around your age, blue-collar, kind, and easy to be around. The kind of man who knew his way around town and made it a point to invite you over whenever there was too much food. Nothing complicated.

Just… neighborly. Yes, neighborly.

“Good morning, ma’am!” Sarah called out, already halfway into the passenger seat of the truck.

“Morning, Sarah,” you replied, offering a quick smile—one that lingered just a little longer when it shifted to her father.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed and shoulder propped casually against the truck, “… since you’re both headed to the same place, I can give you a ride. Tight squeeze, but it’s better than being stranded.”

There was something calm about the way he said it. No pressure. No teasing. Just an open door when you needed one.

“I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Miller,” you said, exhaling a laugh that scraped out more nervous than light. “If I don’t show up soon, I think they might just about fire me.”

It took a moment to gather your things, every motion feeling slower than it should. The weight of the morning still clung to you. But when you climbed into the truck, the world felt just a little more manageable.

The fit was snug. His truck—an old Chevrolet C/K 10, dark blue and time-worn—smelled faintly of wood and sun-warmed fabric. It was dirty enough to show the dust of long days and dirt roads, but not enough to be neglected.

You sat in the middle—knees brushing lightly against his, careful not to crowd Sarah. The cab was quiet but not tense, broken by the hum of the road and the occasional rattle of something loose behind the seat. Screwdrivers, maybe. A toolbox.

“Are we going to go over the reading chapters today?” Sarah asked, turning from the window, her voice gentle and curious.

“Chapters five and six,” you replied, straightening the collar of your shirt, which still felt slightly wrong after the rushed morning. “Did they bore you?”

It wasn’t the question of a teacher, not really. Just a sincere check-in—human to human.

“I liked it,” she said, smiling. “I like the bird."

Her gaze drifted back out the window, toward the wide fields stitched with fences and the occasional slow-moving cow. You liked that about the countryside. Never saw cows when you were a kid.

Joel’s voice chimed in, warm and casual. “You guys are readin’ a book?”

His left hand rested on top of the steering wheel. The right tapped absentminded rhythms against his thigh.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” you said, returning the smile. “It’s good for students to read allegorical satire. Helps them start asking questions they didn’t know they had.”

He let out a short breath of a laugh. “Never heard of it. Never read it. And, don't ask me what a fuckin' allegorical is.”

You glanced over. “You’d probably like it more now than you would’ve in school.”

“Back in school,” he said with a smirk, “I wasn’t much for readin’. Could barely sit still long enough to get through a page.”

“Most people can’t. Not really,” you said. “It’s a skill you grow into—if life lets you.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just thoughtful. But no one was in a rush to dive in, the morning still clinging to your consciousness.

The road stretched out ahead, light and cracked, under a sky washed pale by morning sun. A few questions bounced between father and daughter, easy and familiar, their rhythm well-worn. You listened more than you spoke, content in the quiet, in the soft country drawl of their conversation and the hum of the road beneath you.

It was peaceful.

You didn’t feel like a guest. You didn’t feel like a burden. And for a morning that had begun in chaos, that was saying something.

The school crept up on the horizon—its brick walls catching the morning sun, buses already lined along the curb. In a blink, the truck eased to a stop at the front.

“Hey,” you said, your hand pausing on the door handle. “I really appreciate this. A lot.”

Joel turned toward you, eyes meeting yours with a brief, searching look—like he was trying to read something unspoken in your face. Then he smiled, easy.

“My kid can’t learn if you’re not there to teach,” he said.

Touché.

He cleared his throat, almost like he hadn’t meant to say the next part. “What time do you get off? I’m usually back around three to pick Sarah up.”

“Three forty-five. I’ve got bus duty,” you said with a faint shrug. You glanced toward Sarah, who was a few steps ahead, idly rolling a small rock under her sneaker, waiting.

“How about dinner as a thank you?” The words came out lighter than you expected, almost airy—your fingers fidgeting at the strap of your work bag.

Was that your heart picking up a little?

Get a grip, girl, oh my god.

Joel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised—not put off, just maybe not used to being on the receiving end of offers like that.

“You cook?” he asked, a teasing note there, but gentle.

“Only on days when my car dies,” you deadpanned, smiling.

He let out a low laugh, hand brushing over the back of his neck. “Alright then. Deal.”

Sarah glanced back at you both with a curious tilt of her head, then turned toward the school doors.

You stepped back onto the sidewalk, the truck rumbling into motion behind you. And for a second, you let yourself watch it pull away—feeling just a little more awake than you had an hour ago.

The school day wasn’t bad. In fact, it moved with a kind of ease—fluid, almost gentle. Most of your students stayed on task, heads down in their books, pens scribbling half-heartedly in the margins. The lessons were simple: annotation, discussion, light analysis. Theories floated through the classroom like soft echoes, some half-baked, others surprisingly sharp. It was steady. Predictable.

At lunch, you slipped into the cafeteria like a teenager sneaking out of class, leaning across the counter to charm an extra salad out of the lunch lady. It wasn’t great—but it filled the space, the kind of space that had been gnawed open earlier that morning by a dead car and a voice that wouldn't leave your head. The space that was only filled by rushed coffee, and no breakfast.

That voice.

Rough around the edges, like a match dragging across gritted paper. Those dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing. And his arms—tendons of muscle flexing casually beneath a worn t-shirt.

Distracting.

But he was a parent. Your student’s father, specifically.

That made it all feel dangerous in a way that wasn’t thrilling. Like walking a little too close to the edge of a cliff, one you’d promised yourself you’d never climb too high on.

Still, the thought lingered, and it crept in between stacks of ungraded essays and half-finished lesson plans.

By the time dismissal rolled around, you were decaying. Bus duty was its usual slow, aching pace—standing beneath the heavy Texas sun, watching yellow buses puff clouds of smog into the air. Your sundress, collared and ironed just hours ago, now clung to your skin like a second, far less glamorous skin.

You adjusted your sunglasses and scanned the parking lot, squinting through the thick, warm air. A familiar blue truck rolled into view, crawling forward beneath the glare.

And there he was.

Joel Miller, one arm hanging out the window, looked just as effortlessly composed as he had this morning.

You hated that. And also… didn’t. Maybe.

He pulled up slowly, the engine humming low. Sarah hopped out from the group of kids, waving once before trotting toward the truck.

“Still standin’, huh?” Joel called, his voice lazy and amused.

You arched a brow. “Barely.”

He chuckled. “You still up for that dinner?”

Were you? You weren’t sure if it was sweat or nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

Ugh, you're so fucked. Why did you offer that in the first place? Could have sent yourself into a nice, cooled, ice cream rotted binge on your couch.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah,” you said. “I think I’ve earned some of your air conditioning.”

Joel leaned across the center seat, hooking his finger in the door and opening the passenger side. “Then climb on in, teach'. Let’s get you somewhere you can breathe again.”

The ride back was nice—windows rolled down, the late afternoon air sweeping in to soothe your sun-warmed skin. It carried the scent of cut grass and hot pavement, of summer sweeping into the Spring semester. It was roughly mid April. Your sundress fluttered at the hem, and you leaned into the breeze like it might cool something deeper than just the sweat on your back.

Maybe it'll blow away your stress along with it.

Sarah had launched into a breathless recap of her day somewhere around the end of the school parking lot. Now, she was mid-rant—animated, scandalized—telling a story that involved two classmates, an on-again-off-again relationship, and a betrayal. Middle school drama.

“They’re eleven—You're eleven,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the open air.

“You better not be datin’,” Joel cut in from the driver’s seat, voice rough with playfulness. He flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror with a practiced kind of ease. “You’re too young to be dealin’ with heartbreak.”

“Ew, Dad,” Sarah groaned from the side, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “No. God.”

You laughed—genuinely—and shook your head. “The things I’ve overheard from these kids will always blow my mind,” you said, flipping your sunglasses up to rest on your head. “They talk like they've lived three lives already.”

Joel smirked, hand resting casual on the wheel. “Middle school’s a war zone now. Nothing like when we were that age.”

You nodded. “Now it’s pager beeps… sneaking their iPod into class… myspace…"

Sarah cringed, visibly. Old people.

He let out a low whistle. “I’d never survive.”

“Mmhhmm,” you hummed, softly. And for a second, you both just listened to the road.

The sky was shifting now—smeared with burnt orange, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows on the dashboard. The quiet between stretched, not awkward, not strained.

“Home’s just ahead,” Joel said, his voice gentler now.

You turned your head, looked at him—really looked this time.

“I can bring wine,” you said. “Figured it was safer than tryin' to cook with a power tool…” Lacey accent slipping off of the edge of your words.

He chuckled, the sound deep and raspy. “Good call. I’ve got ribs that need finishin' on the grill.”

Sarah practically cheered, a dramatic, “I love when you make ribs!”

“Then it’s settled,” Joel said, pulling into the driveway with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times—but today, it felt different. Like a routine just slightly rewritten. You're an extra character, perhaps.

You stepped out of the truck and into something that, maybe, wasn’t so routine at all.

It didn’t take long—just enough time to slip home, peel off the sundress that had long since clung to your skin, and breathe for a minute in the stillness of your space. The kind of stillness that only exists in the hours of the afternoon, when the light comes in low.

You changed into something casual—soft. Nothing bold, nothing inappropriate. But not something you’d ever wear to teach sixth graders about symbolism either. The fabric settled gently over your arms, still chilled from evaporated sweat, the heat of the day finally breaking.

A bottle of wine—cheap, screw top, a last-minute grab from the grocery store last week. A Tupperware of homemade cookies from a restless baking spree the night before. Some fruit, slightly bruised but still sweet, collected into a bag you tied off with a ribbon you found in your kitchen drawer. It was an offering, of sorts. Not extravagant. But thoughtful.

Honest.

Shit, did you want to impress him?

As you locked your door and stepped back into the fading gold of afternoon, it occurred to you how strangely normal this all felt. Like you’d done it before. Like you might do it again.

Hoped you'd do it again.

You made your way next door, your arms full, your heart doing that quiet, uncertain stutter it sometimes did when life shifted just a little out of its usual orbit.

Joel was already on the back patio, sleeves rolled, one hand gripping a pair of tongs as he turned a rack of ribs with practiced nonchalance. The scent hit you before you even rounded the house—smoke, spice, a hint of char.

He glanced up as you approached, and gave a nod like you were right on time.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, the side of his mouth lifting. “We don’t mess around when it comes to ribs in this house.”

You held up the wine and the cookies like a peace offering.

“Well,” you smiled, “I figured I’d at least try to earn my keep.”

Dinner was simple, but good—the kind of meal that stuck to your gut and made the world feel a little smaller, maybe your pants too. Joel plated the ribs with a quiet sort of confidence, tossing a bowl of greens beside the meat like an afterthought.

Sarah had eventually taken her plate to the living room, sprawled on the floor with a tv-show humming from the television, volume low enough to let the hum of cicadas sneak through the open screen door.

You and Joel stayed outside, the patio lights strung overhead flickering to life as the sun dipped low. The wine was already half-gone between the two of you, and the fruit sat untouched on the table—sweating in the heat.

“You always cook like this?” you asked, moving around food with your fork.

He huffed, almost sheepishly. “Only when I’ve got a reason to. Usually it’s just whatever Sarah’s willing to eat without a fight.”

“She’s a good kid,” you said, tone softer now. “Sharp. Thoughtful. Sometimes I catch her looking out for the other students when she thinks no one’s watching…”

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed like he was weighing something. “She likes your class. Says you don’t talk to ‘em like they’re stupid.”

“Well, they’re not,” you replied. “Even when they act like it.”

That earned a low chuckle, his head tipping back, the sound rattling in his chest.

The silence after it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavier.

You glanced at him—really looked—and felt that slow, creeping awareness settle in again. The line. The complication. The tension that had existed ever since this morning when you’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The stares between bringing the mail in, or doing yard work in the summer.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, after a pause too long to be casual.

You blinked. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, then shook his head slowly. “I dunno. Most teachers I’ve met don’t come over with cookies and wine. Or talk about books like it’s gospel. Or…” He stopped himself there, jaw working as he looked away.

You swallowed. Your fingers fidgeted with the stem of your wine glass. “Or…?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered, voice lower now. “Or make me wonder if it’s a bad idea to enjoy the way you laugh.”

That silenced the evening air. Even the bugs seemed to pause.

Fuck.

You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the warmth or just exhaustion, but your voice came quieter than you meant it to:

“She’s your daughter. I’m her teacher.”

Joel’s gaze lifted, met yours. Steady. Serious. “I know.”

You didn’t look away.

“Doesn’t make it go away though, does it?” He said, almost a whisper.

The porch light buzzed above you, moths circling like they knew something you didn’t.

From inside, Sarah laughed at something on the TV. A reminder. A tether.

You stood, smoothing your flannel, suddenly aware of the way the night had curled itself around you.

“I should head home,” you said, not moving just yet.

Joel didn’t try to stop you. He just nodded once, like he understood exactly what you meant—and also didn’t. He didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

“Thanks for dinner,” you added, voice a little shakier than you wanted.

He looked up at you then, and his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for showin’ up.”

You turned to go, your shoes quiet on the worn patio boards, when his voice caught you—gentle this time, like it didn’t want to startle you.

“Wait—”

You stopped, half-glancing over your shoulder. The wind fizzling out against you, carrying with it the scent of smoke and sugar, and something that lingered between the two of you.

Joel stood slowly, one hand running along the back of his neck, the other dangling at his side, “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed it,” he began, already cautious, already apologetic. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, I know. But I gotta run down to Tommy’s place. His breaker’s been out since Tuesday and he’s useless with wires.”

You don't question who Tommy is, guessing you'll find out sooner or later.

He smiled faintly—just enough to take the edge off the ask. “Figured it’d only take me half the day. Was wonderin’ if maybe you could… keep an eye on Sarah?”

Your brow arched, not from offense, just surprise. “You want me to babysit?”

He huffed, shaking his head like that word didn’t sit right with him. “She’s eleven. Barely needs watchin’. Just someone around. Someone she trusts.”

Questionable.

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because it suddenly made everything feel a little closer, a little less theoretical. You weren’t just a neighbor now. Not just her teacher. This was something else.

No, this is something entirely different.

“She’s welcome to come to my place,” you said finally, voice careful. “I’ve got air conditioning, cable TV, and leftover cookies. That should be enough to keep her entertained.”

Joel’s mouth lifted into a genuine smile. Not cocky. Not performative. Just grateful.

“I appreciate it. Really.”

You gave him a look—measured, but warm. “You're lucky I like her...”

“Have her knock around ten?”

He nodded, and for a second it felt like something else passed between you. A thank you, unspoken.

As you finally stepped back toward your own yard, his voice floated out behind you—low, but not uncertain.

“Night.”

You paused, smiled without turning. “Night, Joel.”

. . .

Ten came quicker than expected. The morning had been gentle—sunlight pouring through the kitchen window as you swept the floor barefoot, your coffee gone lukewarm on the counter. Cracked the windows to let in the breeze, the sound of birds and distant lawnmowers carried through the air. You’d even lit a candle, something citrusy and clean.

You weren't doing this for her, per se, but it did help spur your motivation.

When Sarah knocked, it was exactly on time.

She stood on your porch with a small canvas tote slung over her shoulder, the strap nearly sliding off. “I brought homework and bracelet stuff,” she announced, stepping inside like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Good,” you smiled. “I’m making you do all my grading.”

She laughed, setting her things on the coffee table and plopping down on the floor. Out came the beads, a half-finished paperback, and a spiral notebook with messy notes in the margins. She settled quickly, legs crossed, humming softly as she untangled some elastic string.

The morning unfolded easily.

You sat on the couch, red pen in hand, a pile of essays to your right, and your planner open on the cushion beside you. The rhythm of your work was slow but steady. Sarah didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t strained. Every now and then, she’d ask a quiet question—about the reading, or if you liked a certain color pattern for the bracelet she was working on. You answered without looking up, then looked up anyway.

She was comfortable. Focused. There was something familiar about it, something that softened you without asking permission. The quiet company. The peacefulness of just being in a room with someone, no performance required.

You caught yourself looking around once, eyes drifting across the living room: the soft sunlight over the coffee table, the slow spin of dust in the air, her bent head over a half-tied knot in the string. Coiled brown hair that was messily tied up. It hit you how still it all felt—how whole.

The thought unsettled you. In a good way. In a scary way. One you felt like you might not deserve.

Sarah looked up, suddenly, like she felt you were thinking. “Do you think I should make one for my dad?”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch. “Would he wear it?”

“Probably not.” She twisted the beads between her fingers. “But he’d keep it.”

“Then yes. Definitely.”

She nodded, satisfied.

You went back to your grading, and the clock kept ticking. The day crawled in that slow Saturday kind of way. And still, neither of you felt any rush to break the moment.

Around noon, you made sandwiches—simple ones. Toasted bread, turkey, tomato, a bit of mayo, nothing fancy. You called Sarah to the kitchen, and she wandered in with a half-finished bracelet still looped around her fingers.

She stood beside you while you cut the sandwiches diagonally, eyes following the knife. “You always eat lunch this late?” she asked, biting into a pickle from the plate you slid her way.

“Only on weekends,” you stated. “School days, it’s usually whatever I can sneak between grading and yelling across the room to keep kids from doodling that damn S in their essays.”

Sarah snorted. “Justina wrote about teen vogue in her book report last week.”

You gave her a look. “You’re kidding.”

“Swear.”

You both laughed and sat on the barstools at your little kitchen island, legs swinging absently under the counter.

Halfway through her sandwich, she asked, “Did you always wanna be a teacher?”

The question came out of nowhere, but not in a challenging way. She just sounded curious. Genuinely interested.

You chewed thoughtfully, then gave a shrug. “I think I did. I liked books. I liked figuring people out through how they wrote. And… I liked the idea of being someone who noticed things when no one else did.”

Sarah nodded like she understood that more than someone her age probably should.

After a beat, she asked, “Do you like it?”

You leaned your elbows on the counter and looked at her—really looked. Tan skin, freckles. “I do. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it’s too hot and no one read the chapter. And someone’s crying in the bathroom. And another kid’s sneaking cheeto puffs under their desk… I still like it.”

That made her smile. Not just polite—but full, like she was letting you in on something private. “You’re good at it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She twisted her straw around in her drink. “You don’t talk down to us. You don’t act like we’re stupid… And, you're funny."

“Well,” you said with a small grin, “…. some of you are suspiciously smart.”

She took a long sip of her juice. “Do you have a family?”

You paused—less because of the question, and more because it reminded you how rarely you got asked anything personal by your students. It just wasn't the type of thing they were curious about.

It was obvious you lived alone.

“Not really,” you said gently. “My family’s kind of scattered. A few phone calls here and there, but I’ve made my own little version of it along the way.”

Sarah looked at you. Not pity. Just a kind of knowing. “I think my dad’s doin’ that too.”

You didn’t say anything to that—just reached over and gently nudged the plate of cookies toward her.

“Eat another, that’s your payment for getting deep on a Saturday.”

She giggled and took one. “Deal.”

. . .

The night had crept in without warning. You hadn’t even noticed the sun setting, not really. One moment, the room was bathed in gold, and the next, it was all deep, dark, and warm lamp light. The hum of your box fan filled the background as Lilo & Stitch played on your TV, slightly fuzzy.

Sarah had curled up beside you with a blanket around her shoulders, popcorn long abandoned. At some point, she’d pressed a throw pillow into your lap and laid her head down on it without a word. It felt natural.

Like this wasn’t new.

You sipped from your mug of tea, still warm in your hands. The weight of her head on your lap wasn’t heavy—just present. Comforting. Her hair smelled like cheap shampoo and sun—like Joel clearly didn't know what hair products to buy for her—like maybe you'd have to fix that too.

You watched the movie for a while, but your eyes kept drifting to her instead.

She looked peaceful. Deep asleep, breath even, lashes soft against her cheeks. You reached for the remote slowly, lowered the volume down to a murmur, letting your other hand rest loosely on the arm of the couch

It made your chest feel oddly full. Not in a heavy way. Just full.

You liked it. You liked this.

And then came a knock. Soft. Three times.

You looked toward the front door and instinctively glanced at the clock. A little past ten.

The door creaked open before you could get up—Joel stepped in, gently closing it behind him as he spotted you on the couch. He didn’t speak at first. Just took in the sight.

Sarah, asleep. The dim TV light flickering across the room. Your hand halfway frozen mid-sip.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake her.”

“She’s out cold,” you whispered with a soft smile. “Movie night hit harder than expected. It was a rager.”

He walked in a few steps, careful like the floor might creak too loud. His eyes moved from his daughter to you, then back again. “Looks like she made herself comfortable.”

You nodded. “She’s good company, don't worry.”

Joel’s mouth tugged into a soft smile. The kind that didn’t flash—it just settled there. “You’re good with her,” he said after a moment. “I mean—I knew that already. School and all' but this…”

He looked down at his boots for a second, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping over a line just being here.

“I appreciate it,” he added, quieter this time. “Today. All of it.”

You swallowed and nodded, fingers curling around your mug, “Of course.”

There was a pause then. Just long enough for it to stretch a little. He looked like he had more to say, but didn’t know how to frame it.

“I can carry her out,” he offered, voice still soft, stepping forward.

You nodded and gently began to shift. “Let me help.”

Joel leaned in carefully, one arm sliding under his daughter’s legs, the other under her back. She stirred only slightly, murmuring something in her sleep as he lifted her with practiced ease.

She fit into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. A practiced ritual. Love and devotion.

You stood nearby, arms crossed gently over your chest, mug long discarded, watching him adjust her in his hold.

He looked at you—really looked.

“Maybe next time,” he said, “we make it dinner and a movie.”

Your breath caught, just a little. Then you smiled, faint and genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Maybe we do.”

Joel nodded once, Sarah curled against his chest, and turned to the door.

But it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the first page of something. Quiet. Earnest. Real.

He was halfway down the walkway when you spoke—quietly, but with enough clarity to carry through the still evening air.

“Joel?”

He paused, turning just slightly over his shoulder. The porch light spilled a golden hue across his back, catching the faint tousle of Sarah’s hair as she slept, her head tucked close against his collarbone. Hair slightly messed from the long day of wearing a hat.

You stepped forward, one hand bracing the doorframe. You weren’t sure exactly what gave you the nerve—maybe it was the way he looked standing there, solid and warm in the night. Maybe it was the weight of Sarah’s sleepy trust still lingering in your lap. Or maybe it was just the ache of wanting company.

“When you put her down,” you said, voice quieter now, “… you can come back. If you want.”

Joel tilted his head. Not in surprise—more like consideration.

“I’ve got whiskey,” you added, your tone lighter, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth, “Might not be top shelf, but it’s not the worst.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there holding his daughter, looking at you like he was seeing something he didn’t know he needed to find.

Then came a nod. Slow. Sure.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

You watched him go, the weight of that promise hanging in the air even after he disappeared down the drive.

Ten minutes stretched, but not in a bad way. You rinsed your mug, straightened a blanket. You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t change your clothes or fix your hair. This wasn’t a date—it wasn’t anything like that.

And still, your heart thudded a little when the knock came again.

You opened the door, and there he was—no daughter this time, no arms full of responsibility. Just Joel. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair a little tousled, eyes softer than you’d seen them all day.

“I brought glasses,” he said, holding up two tumblers from his own kitchen. “Didn’t know if yours had dust in ‘em.”

You grinned. “You don't take me for a whiskey girl?" The jest came out easy.

The two of you ended up back on the couch—poured the whiskey, handed him a glass, then settled back with your knees pulled up beneath you.

At first, it was small talk. Work. The heat. The horror that was sixth grade social dynamics. You laughed more than you meant to. So did he.

And then, somewhere between the second to third pour and the second silence that followed it, the mood shifted—not heavy, just quieter. The kind of quiet that stretches like a soft duvet, not a wall.

Joel swirled the whiskey in his glass. “She adores you, y’know.”

Your brows lifted. “Sarah?”

He nodded. “You’ve only been her teacher for a little while, but… she talks about you. More than I think she realizes. Always been a little cautious with people. But you? She lets her guard down… and I'm sure I'll never hear the end of tonight.”

You exhaled, your fingers tracing the lip of your glass. “She’s easy to care about.”

Joel glanced at you, then looked down at his lap, his thumb rubbing the base of the tumbler. “So are you.”

That stopped you.

Not because it was forward. But because it was honest.

You didn’t answer, not at first. Just let the moment hang there, warm and undemanding.

Then you gave the softest response you could manage, your voice barely above the hum of the fan:

“You didn’t have to say that.”

He looked over. “I wanted to.”

Another pause. Your legs shifted, stretching out toward the edge of the couch, and Joel turned slightly to mirror you. Closer now. Not touching. But close enough to feel it.

You lifted your glass between you. “To honesty, then.”

He clinked his against yours. “To whatever this is.”

And you both drank.

. . .

Sunday settled heavy over the neighborhood, the heat of the day finally loosening its grip as night crept in through the windows.

It's hot as fuck, per usual.

You’d spent the day on the phone—tow truck, auto shop, then the shop again. No answer. Then one more call that went straight to voicemail.

The car wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were you.

By early evening, you were pacing your Livingroom barefoot, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt as you weighed your options. The silence in your house only made it worse.

You weren’t stranded, not really. You could call a Taxi. Call a coworker. Figure something out.

But you didn’t want to do any of that. It costs money. It costs social awareness you lacked with your older co-workers.

So you grabbed your keys—habit, really—and crossed the short driveway barefoot, the concrete still warm beneath your soles. You didn’t knock immediately. Just stood there for a second, hand raised, heart giving a small, stupid thud.

Then you knocked—three soft taps.

It didn’t take long.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulder like he’d been doing dishes. He blinked at first—surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar rasp curling around the word like warmth.

“Hey,” you echoed, then glanced down, “I—uh—I hate to bug you, especially two nights in a row, but I think my car’s officially given up on life.”

Joel leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “That the same one you tried to nurse back to health Friday?”

“The very same,” you sighed, arms crossing in mirror of his. “I’ve called the shop three times today, and nothing. Was hoping you might have a mechanic, some advice? A brand new supercar?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I know a guy—used to work with him. He’s good, won’t try to fleece you.”

Relief bloomed in your chest, enough to make your smile genuine. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Lemme grab his number,” Joel said, pushing the door open wider in invitation. “C’mon in. You might as well get comfortable while I dig through the drawer.”

You stepped inside, that familiar warmth of his home wrapping around you. There was something about the smell—cedar and clean laundry and something that felt lived-in. Sarah’s backpack was dropped by the couch, her sneakers nearby. Brown paint clung nicely to the walls.

Joel wandered off toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Want some water? Or whiskey again?”

“Water, please. I’m trying not to turn into a problem,” you called back, a small jest.

He returned a minute later with a glass in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

“Here’s the number. Name’s Eli. Tell him I sent you, he’ll probably bump you to the front of the line.”

You took both, fingers brushing his—barely. But it was enough to send a small jolt through your system.

Easy, girl.

“I owe you,” you said, softly.

He looked at you then, for a beat too long. Not in a way that asked anything from you. But in a way that made your stomach flutter and your breath slow.

“Nah,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

A silence fell. Not awkward, not pressing. Just… open. You stood in his living room, water glass sweating in your palm, and felt that strange comfort again—like you belonged there more than you should.

You cleared your throat gently. “I, uh… I’ll let you get back to your night.”

Joel didn’t move. “You don’t have to rush off.”

You raised a brow inquisitively.

He shrugged, one hand running down the side of his neck. “Just sayin’. Sarah’s already asleep. It’s quiet. I’ve got a couch and a half a pizza left in the fridge.”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “Is that your way of asking me to stay for dinner?”

“I’d say it’s more of an open invitation,” he replied, eyes soft, “No pressure.”

You lingered in the doorway, fingers curling tighter around the cool glass in your hand. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you—like you were someone who mattered. Like this quiet exchange, wrapped in casual tones and easy smiles, meant more than either of you wanted to admit.

But your mind pulled elsewhere. You had a stack of unfinished grading waiting at home, a lesson plan to finalize, a classroom to reset before Monday at eight. As much as you wanted to sit back on that couch with him, legs tucked beneath you and the low hum of some old movie playing in the background… reality tugged at your sleeve.

Fuckin' reality.

“I’ve got papers to grade,” you said softly, your voice an apology more than anything. “And a few things to prep for tomorrow. My classroom’s a mess and the kids are expecting answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet.”

Joel gave a small nod, not disappointed—just understanding. “Yeah,” he said, that low drawl, “Duty calls.”

You smiled faintly, setting the glass down on the kitchen counter. “I wasn’t expecting to be here this long, anyway.”

“Didn’t seem like you were in a rush,” he offered, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“No,” you agreed, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I wasn’t.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting the silence fall again. At the door, he opened it for you, the night air brushing cool against your skin.

“You’ll let me know if the car gives you more trouble?” he asked.

You looked back at him. “Promise.”

His eyes held yours for a moment too long again—warm and steady, like he saw straight through to the parts of you you kept hidden.

“Night, Joel.”

“Night,” he said, voice low. “Grade easy.”

You stepped out into the dark, your heart just a little heavier in the best way.

Back home, your papers waited. But so did the memory of the way he’d looked at you—not asking for anything, not needing to. Just seeing you. And that, somehow, was the part that lingered the longest.

. . .

Monday rolled in like a wave—heavy, gray-skied, and a little too fast.

You rubbed your eyes in the soft glow of your kitchen light, coffee in hand, toast forgotten in the toaster. It was too early, your body still half-asleep, and the stress of the week already sat on your shoulders like a full backpack. Ironic, right?

Your car still wouldn’t start, and the mechanic hadn’t gotten back to you over the weekend. The thought of repair bills danced in the back of your mind—bitter. Bills you might not be able to pay. Bills you know you aren't going to be able to pay.

At exactly 6:53 a.m, the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck echoed outside your window. You peered through the blinds and saw Sarah swinging her backpack onto her shoulder, Joel stepping around the truck to help her up with an ease that made your chest ache in some unspoken way.

You met them outside, travel mug in hand, your sweater pulled tight around you to fight off the last of the early morning chill. Joel gave you a nod as you climbed in—Sarah already chatting from the passenger seat about some comic she’d stayed up too late reading.

“Morning,” Joel said, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You alright?”

“As good as someone without a working car and a pile of essays to grade can be,” you muttered, flashing him a tired but honest smile.

He glanced over at you, one hand on the wheel. “You hear anything from the shop?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping it’s just the battery,” you sighed. “But knowing my luck, it’s probably the whole damn engine.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Just fact.

That small sentence landed heavier than you expected.

We’ll. As if this was shared. As if your problems were something he was already invested in. It was comforting, and terrifying all at once.

Sarah turned toward you from the passenger seat, holding up the beaded bracelet from the day previous. “If your car’s still busted tomorrow, I can make you one of these. For good luck.”

You smiled, genuine and soft. “How'd you know that's exactly what I need?”

The rest of the drive was quiet in that peaceful early-week kind of way—radio low, wind slipping through a cracked window, Sarah humming something tuneless in the front seat. Joel didn’t say much more, but you felt his presence beside you like a steady drumbeat. Reliable. Unspoken.

When the school came into view, you felt yourself straighten, the teacher version of you slowly surfacing.

But before you unbuckled, Joel’s voice cut gently through the quiet.

“After school,” he said. “We’ll go to the shop,"

"Together.”

You looked at him.

Tired, maybe.

A little stressed.

But steadier now.

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft.

. . .

The day was rough from the start.

Your first-period class barely looked up when you entered. Heads on desks, a few pencils half-heartedly scratching at papers. Jonathan Livingston Seagull sat untouched on more than one corner of a desk. You gave the same opening you’d practiced—about individuality, purpose, flying beyond expectations—but it landed with a thud.

By third period, someone asked if Jonathan was just suicidal, and another asked if they could switch to reading The Lorax instead. You scribbled a note to rework your discussion questions during your lunch break.

Damn kids.

Lunch came late and cold. The meat was… questionable. You ate a granola bar instead and skimmed through a few ungraded reflection assignments.

A few of them weren’t bad. Most of them wrote, 'he just wanted to be alone and fly,' in different ways.

Good observation. It's not like he's a fuckin' bird or anything.

The copier jammed halfway through printing your last worksheet of the day.

By the final bell, your nerves were strung tight. Your voice felt hoarse from repeating yourself. Your lesson plans for the next day were untouched. And your car was still out of commission.

You walked out into the bright Texas sun, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder, the heat already slick on the back of your neck. And there it was: the blue Chevy, idling quietly in the car line.

Joel gave you a small nod when you opened the passenger door. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” you said, sliding in. “I think the seagull’s going to be the death of me.”

He gave a low, amused sound—not quite a laugh. “Still on that book?”

You buckled your seatbelt. “Yep. Today’s takeaway was that he should’ve just stayed with the flock.”

Joel didn’t look over, but you could see the smile pulling at his cheek. “Not exactly the message, huh?”

“No. But I’m not sure anyone in my third period cares much about metaphors.”

He adjusted the gearshift and pulled away from the curb. His forearm rested lightly against the wheel, steady. You let yourself sink back into the seat, eyes half-closed against the sun filtering through the windshield.

“How’s the car?” he asked after a few moments.

You sighed. “We talked on the phone. Mechanic's ordering a part. Might be a few days.”

He nodded. “Well—I’ll be here.”

You glanced over, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “I mean, it’s not out of the way. Sarah likes the company. And I don’t mind.”

You looked back through the window, a small smile curling in despite the heat and the bad day. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

That made you glance over. He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just kept driving, a slight edge of amusement in his voice.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop the smile.

"Speaking of Sarah," you murmured as you settled into the truck seat, tugging your bag into your lap, "Where is she? Doesn’t she do a sport?"

Joel kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the open window ledge. “Yeah. Soccer. Practice runs a little later on Mondays. I'll swing back ‘round after I drop you off.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the pause.

“Soccer, huh. Is she any good?”

“She’s scrappy,” he said, mouth pulling into the start of a grin. “Got no fear. Don’t matter how big the other kid is—she’ll steal that ball like it’s hers by right.”

That made you smile. “Sounds about right. She’s sharp. Doesn’t say a ton in class, but I can tell her wheels are always turning."

Joel glanced over at you briefly, brow lifting. “Yeah? She don’t talk much about school, other than about you. I ask, but y’know—middle schoolers. Everything’s ‘fine’ or ‘I dunno.’”

“Well,” you said, chuckling, “… she was one of the only ones who turned in her seagull reflection on time. So she’s already ahead of the curve.”

That got a low, amused noise from him. He clears his throat, dramatizing, “She said that book was ‘weird but, like, kinda deep.' Her exact words.'

“She’s not wrong,” you replied, settling a little more comfortably against the seat. “Bird’s dramatic, sure. But you can’t knock his drive.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just drove, letting the warm spring breeze drift in through the window. Town rolled by, familiar and soft around the edges.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You got a second to breathe tonight, or you buried in papers again?”

You laughed under your breath. “A little of both. I always trick myself into thinking I can stay ahead. Then I assign open-ended questions and immediately regret it.”

“Rookie mistake,” he teased, lips twitching. “You’ll learn.”

“Oh, so now you’re givin’ me pointers?”

He shot you a side glance. “Hey, I know how to spot a burnout comin’. Seen it plenty. You teachers push too hard, too fast.”

You raised a brow, but the smile that crept in was genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” he said, then with a quieter edge, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with askin’ for help, y’know. For what it’s worth.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. You looked over, but he was already turning onto your street.

“I’ll keep that in mind too,” you said gently.

He pulled up in front of your place and let the truck idle.

“I’ll let you get to it,” Joel said, nodding toward your bag. “Unless you’re plannin’ to school me on seagull philosophy.”

You laughed, reaching for the door handle, “Careful, I might. I’ve got quotes.”

He smirked, voice low and teasing, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You stepped out, the truck door closing behind you with a soft clunk. As you walked up your porch, you glanced back.

He was still there. Engine still running—but he didn’t pull away until he saw you fully enter your house.

Shit.

This is going to be the start of something pretty dangerous, huh?

author note:

omgheyyyy... guess who is hooked to this idea (me, it's me). i think this is going to be my first thorough series. very slice of life and fluff heavy. eventual smut chapter... and ofc it'll lead all the way up to outbreak because angst, and I'm evil? maybe okay anyway thoughts r appreciated...

comment for next chapter tagging.

[riality-check]

ao3 link

Biology is the worst class Viktor takes in his time at the Academy.

It is, respectfully, a stupid requirement for engineers, especially for engineers of his inclination: the ones who would rather their hands smeared in axle grease than blood. It is a frustratingly macroscale discipline, frequently causing Viktor more questions than answers.

He asks these in lecture, of course. He is not obnoxious, at least not any more so than the girl who inquired, as his professor handed out the first exam, as to whether humans were animals.

Lecture is for questions, especially since Viktor would rather work on his projects, both personal and for his engineering courses, than waste the time going to the office hours for a class in which he has earned perfect marks on every weekly quiz.

After lecture one day early in the semester, he is kindly but firmly referred by his professor to the chemistry department so that his questions can be better answered. So, he takes the trip to a nostalgic building, a building with floors so slanted he spots students rolling marbles to calculate the impossible angles by which they slope. There, his questions as to why the biological processes for which he has endured incomplete explanations occur in the ways they do are answered, but his questions regarding how are not.

The physical chemistry professors exchange a glance and tell Viktor that the physics department would be better able to describe those forces to him. So, he takes the trip to a building he has seen closed more often than open, where he has heard other students complain about fire scares repeatedly - something about a faulty boiler.

Viktor wonders why the Academy has not bothered to have it fixed yet. They certainly have the funds.

He has fixed more complex machines with less. Perhaps he could have a crack at it.

He concludes swiftly after his arrival that he rather likes the physics department. There, everything makes sense. It is all motion, with the atoms of the world moving in harmony. And when they are not, disruptions can be calculated and corrected.

Much better than the chaos of a body. There are far more complex ways to fail in a living system and far fewer solutions to correct those failures.

On the rare occasions in which the physics does not make sense, particularly when he has questions regarding certain derivations, he is warmly and excitedly referred further.

The math department is, inexplicably, housed in a building so labyrinthine that one of the illegible maps on the wall has “GOOD LUCK” scribbled across it. It shares the building with at least two other departments. As Viktor walks past offices organized seemingly without rhyme or reason, he finds that one of those other departments is the linguistics department.

He hears snatches of his native language between the soft thuds of his cane on the carpet. The speakers are heavily accented, but his heart clenches nonetheless.

How long has it been since he has had a full conversation in it? The answer is the same number of years it has been since his parents departed, and that is one number that Viktor would rather not think about.

That semester, he becomes as much a fixture within the math and physics departments as he is in his home department of engineering. He talks with professors he will have in later classes, and they offer him friendly smiles when they see him.

No one besides Heimerdinger has done that for him at the Academy. He did not realize how much he missed it until he lost it and got it back.

If that was all Viktor got from biology, he might be inclined to say it was a good course, though not in any traditional sense. But that was not the case.

Instead, it reminded him of everything that was wrong with him.

They… “take it easy” in one lecture the day after an exam. They discuss abnormal physiology for fun, and Viktor wants to throw something.

“Many defects,” his professor explains, “are characterized by a childhood lack.”

She changes out her slides, one by one, explaining that while these conditions are no longer as common in Piltover as they used to be, they still occur often enough, and the students on the pre-medical track should be aware that they do.

Every slide has a picture of someone from the Undercity.

They are sad. Empty. Small mouths and wide eyes. Too-large mismatched clothing and hunched postures. Canes. Prosthetics. Wheelchairs. All cobbled together from scraps, from whatever can be deemed suitable at the moment.

If Viktor were not so transfixed on the way these people, these living, breathing, human beings have been transformed into clinical examples in black-and-white, he would steal a look at his new cane and think back to his old one from the Undercity, tucked into a corner of his room.

But he cannot stop looking.

Because he recognizes some of the faces.

Not many. The Undercity is a big place; unless someone is well known, like Vander or Babette, one can remain relatively anonymous. Faces and names tend to blend. People have their own communities to focus on.

But Viktor recognizes a few. The old shopkeeper with a smile like broken windows who was so good at making the street children laugh is used as an example of Vitamin C deficiency. His smile for the camera is false. Artificially widened to display all his missing teeth.

The drunk who used to sit on the corner by the square and offer advice - usually pretty sound, all things considered - or sing a song in a shockingly smooth baritone, so long as someone handed him a coin or sip from a flask, is reduced to nothing more than his addiction. 

There is no mention of how he would stay up at night to make sure the girls at the brothels made it home safely, or how he would let the children pet his dog. It was a rascal of a mutt, but always well-behaved and clean. It loved children. Viktor had pet that dog many times.

It is not in the picture. The image is only of the man. His half-full bottle is centered.

One of the slides has an image of a young girl with long dark hair and pretty light eyes. This time, Viktor knows her name. It was Ana. She was the only other person Viktor knew his age who used anything like a cane. She had two forearm crutches, as neither of her legs functioned very well.

They did not see each other often, were not nearly close enough to be friends, but there was something shared in the way they smiled and nodded at each other when they passed. A solidarity of sorts.

He stopped seeing Ana when she was young. He always wondered what happened to her. 

The caption of the slide says she passed at a single-digit age. The image of her is nothing like how Viktor remembers her.

He is staring at a ghost while his classmates take note of her rickets, caused by a Vitamin D deficiency.

He has the same condition, one of his many. The professor mentions that it can cause progressive scoliosis as “the patient” ages. His neck prickles as his classmates stare at him, at his cane.

He bites his tongue. He will not leave. He will not cause a scene. He will do the work. He will sit there and learn while people like him are reduced to nothing but hypotheticals for pilates, as examples of the have-nots.

“Characterized by lack.”

Viktor half-expects that an image of him as a child will be presented at some point. He does not remember ever having had his picture taken, but there were enough occasions on which he was too… “out of it” to remember things. Times spent at “doctors’” offices. He would not be surprised if any one of the people who had tried (and they did try, to their credit) to treat him had let in a topsider in exchange for a little extra much-needed coin.

But no such image appears. The last slide, blessedly, shows someone Viktor does not know, but unfortunately, it is something that he is familiar with.

A girl in his class raises her hand as soon as she sees the slide, before Viktor can even begin reading the caption. The professor calls on her, and the girl excitedly chatters about how she had that same birth defect, though less severe, and it was fixed promptly with harnesses and braces physical therapy, and now she is normal.

That is the word she uses. “Normal.”

This girl had a leg like Viktor’s, and she is “normal.”

And he is not.

Because no one in the Undercity knew how to fix it. Because no one thought it could be fixed.

He could have been fucking fixed. If only he had been born topside. If only he had been lucky. If only some other person, a generation before, had the opportunity to be plucked out of the fumes of the Undercity by Heimerdinger as a pet project to make himself feel better, only to be seldom acknowledged after being thrust into a strange world in which, baseline, no one goes hungry.

How fucking strange it is that no one goes hungry here. How odd that no one here seems to want anything necessary, only frivolities and uselessness and toys. How abnormal it is that this is the norm up here, when Viktor learned at a young age to ignore his stomach cramping, ignore the shortness in his lungs, ignore the pain in his legs and his spine and his hands and everywhere else, because nothing will make it better, not the drugs or the doctors or anything, because it cannot be fixed.

Except up here it can. Up here, the Undercity is an unfortunate problem to be photographed and pored over. Its people are reduced to imprints and to ghosts. Theories and hypotheticals.

Because god forbid anyone goes down, and Viktor is the oddity for daring to pull himself up and act like he deserves it when he has better marks and more study hours than the vast majority of his year.

He stands. Class is almost over, but he walks out anyway. His cane is loud on the floor, and he does not care. He holds his head high and ignores his professor and the whispers of other students as he shoves open the door.

Let them see one of their precious photographs come to life.

After, he only returns to that classroom for exams. There is nothing that the professor can teach him that the textbook cannot. He saves his time for more useful things. Math and physics. A new personal project.

It is probably far too late for it to do any good, but Viktor does nothing if not try. A brace should not be too hard to make.

First installment, second installment, latest installment, even more latest installment and another

[jjinno]

HVAC Consultants in Pune: Expertise in Optimizing Indoor Environments

In the era of rapid urbanization and industrial growth, the demand for comfortable, efficient, and sustainable indoor environments is at an all-time high. HVAC systems (Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning) play a crucial role in maintaining indoor air quality, temperature, and overall comfort in residential, commercial, and industrial settings. Pune, a bustling hub of IT parks, industries, and residential complexes, is no exception. The need for professional HVAC consultants in Pune has grown exponentially to cater to diverse requirements ranging from energy-efficient cooling systems to sustainable ventilation solutions.

This article explores the importance of HVAC consultants, their key roles, benefits, and why Pune stands out as a prime market for these services.

Understanding HVAC Systems

An HVAC system is the backbone of modern infrastructure, providing essential climate control. These systems regulate:

Heating: Maintaining warmth in colder conditions.

Ventilation: Ensuring fresh air circulation and removing contaminants.

Air Conditioning: Cooling indoor spaces for comfort and operational efficiency.

Types of HVAC Systems

Split Systems: Ideal for homes and small offices, featuring separate indoor and outdoor units.

Centralized Systems: Suited for large buildings, offering uniform temperature control.

Hybrid Systems: Combine traditional HVAC with renewable energy sources for sustainability.

Duct-Free Systems: Flexible solutions for spaces where ductwork is impractical.

Role of HVAC Consultants

HVAC consultants are experts who analyze, design, and oversee the implementation of HVAC systems tailored to specific needs. Their responsibilities include:

System Design and Planning Consultants create efficient designs based on building architecture, usage patterns, and environmental factors.

Energy Optimization Ensuring systems are energy-efficient to reduce costs and environmental impact.

Regulatory Compliance Advising on local and national codes related to HVAC installations, emissions, and safety.

Project Management Overseeing installation and commissioning to ensure seamless integration.

Maintenance Planning Recommending periodic maintenance schedules to extend system longevity and performance.

Why Pune Needs HVAC Consultants

1. Rapid Urbanization

With the growth of IT hubs, shopping malls, and residential complexes, the demand for robust HVAC systems has surged. Pune's temperate climate requires systems that can adapt to varying conditions.

2. Industrial Growth

Manufacturing units, pharmaceutical plants, and other industries rely heavily on controlled environments for production. HVAC consultants design systems that ensure precise temperature and humidity levels.

3. Sustainability Initiatives

As a city leading in green building certifications, Pune emphasizes energy-efficient HVAC systems to align with its sustainability goals.

4. Climate Adaptation

Pune experiences diverse weather conditions, requiring HVAC solutions that can cater to both cooling and heating needs efficiently.

Services Offered by HVAC Consultants

1. Load Analysis and System Sizing

Proper load calculation ensures the HVAC system is neither underpowered nor overpowered, optimizing performance and cost.

2. Custom Design Solutions

Each building has unique requirements based on size, usage, and architecture. Consultants provide tailored designs for maximum efficiency.

3. Energy Audits

Identifying energy wastage and recommending upgrades to improve efficiency and lower operational costs.

4. Indoor Air Quality (IAQ) Management

Ensuring proper filtration, humidity control, and air circulation for healthier indoor spaces.

5. Maintenance and Upgrades

Scheduling preventive maintenance and suggesting upgrades for aging systems to maintain performance and compliance.

Key Benefits of Hiring HVAC Consultants

Cost Savings Efficient designs and energy optimization reduce utility bills and maintenance expenses.

Enhanced Comfort Systems designed by consultants provide consistent and comfortable indoor conditions.

Sustainability Modern HVAC solutions minimize environmental impact and promote green building practices.

Improved Air Quality Advanced filtration and ventilation systems reduce pollutants and allergens indoors.

Regulatory Compliance Avoid fines and liabilities by adhering to safety and building codes.

Technologies Transforming HVAC Consulting

1. Building Information Modeling (BIM)

BIM software allows consultants to create 3D models of HVAC systems, improving accuracy and collaboration.

2. Smart Thermostats and Sensors

IoT-enabled devices provide real-time monitoring and control, enhancing system efficiency.

3. Renewable Integration

Incorporating solar panels and geothermal systems for sustainable heating and cooling solutions.

4. Predictive Maintenance Tools

AI-powered tools predict potential system failures, reducing downtime and repair costs.

Selecting the Right HVAC Consultant in Pune

When choosing an HVAC consultant, consider the following factors:

Experience and Expertise: Look for consultants with proven experience in handling projects similar to your requirements.

Certifications and Licenses: Ensure the consultant is certified by relevant authorities and complies with local regulations.

Client Testimonials: Reviews and recommendations from previous clients can provide insights into their reliability and quality.

Technology Adoption: Consultants leveraging the latest tools and technologies are better equipped to deliver optimal solutions.

After-Sales Support: Comprehensive maintenance and support services ensure long-term system performance.

Case Study: Successful HVAC Consulting in Pune

Background

A leading IT park in Pune faced high energy costs and inconsistent cooling, affecting employee productivity.

Solution

An HVAC consultant conducted an energy audit, redesigned the ductwork, and installed IoT-enabled sensors for real-time monitoring.

Results

30% reduction in energy consumption.

Enhanced air distribution and consistent cooling.

Significant improvement in employee comfort and satisfaction.

Future Trends in HVAC Consulting

1. Green HVAC Systems

With increasing focus on sustainability, consultants are incorporating renewable energy sources and eco-friendly refrigerants.

2. Smart HVAC Solutions

AI and IoT are making HVAC systems smarter, offering features like adaptive cooling and predictive maintenance.

3. Modular HVAC Systems

Scalable and flexible systems are gaining popularity for their ability to adapt to varying requirements.

4. Hybrid Systems

Combining traditional HVAC with renewable energy systems is becoming a standard in modern infrastructure.

Conclusion

HVAC consultants in Pune are essential for creating efficient, sustainable, and comfortable indoor environments. With their expertise in design, technology, and compliance, they cater to the diverse needs of residential, commercial, and industrial clients. As the city continues to grow, the role of HVAC consultants becomes increasingly critical in achieving energy efficiency and environmental sustainability.

By leveraging cutting-edge technologies and aligning with global trends, HVAC consulting in Pune is poised to shape the future of indoor environments, making them smarter, greener, and more comfortable. Whether for a residential complex, a corporate office, or an industrial facility, the expertise of an HVAC consultant is an invaluable asset.

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Truth Exposer 1: Uncovered — Ch.9

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki/Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n ◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too ◆ characters are in their late 20s SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER SUMMARY — Katsuki’s dinner from hell gets crashed by his own personal devil.

CHAPTER WARNINGS — n/a

WORD COUNT — ~3.6k

a/n: i looked forward to this day. his pov is finally here \o/

“That woman hates my guts. She’s not even bothering to hide it anymore,” the wife-on-paper snapped, yanking at the seatbelt like the spoiled brat she was. “When are you going to stand up for me, Katsuki?”

Katsuki rested his wrist on the steering wheel, sliding her a sidelong glance.

“I bet she’d throw a party if we divorced.”

“If my old hag goes for it, I’m all in.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” He slammed the gas, the engine mirroring his inner state as the car ripped away from his parents’ driveway. Loud. Snarling. “Hate champagne, but fuck if I wouldn’t pop a bottle with her. What? Thought a few weeks of play actin’ was gonna make this real?”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

"Can't. Livin' in one. Starrin' your crazy ass and my stupid one."

Her head snapped toward him, her icy stare trying to drill holes in the side of his skull. The truth was like acid, for him and her too. One drop and the agony started.

She reached across the console, claws trailing over his thigh.

Katsuki’s grip on the steering wheel turned crushing. “Get your damn hand off me.”

She didn’t. His jaw locked, molars grinding. Angry heat rolled over his skin, sweat bleeding from his pores. Katsuki forced himself to breathe deep, but she was everywhere, and his car suddenly felt like a cage from hell. Smoke started escaping from his palms.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he growled.

“Be nice,” she purred, fingers creeping higher. “You promised we’d try for Yua, remember?”

Promised? He didn’t have a fucking choice. More so when his lawyers told him to play along while they searched for a solution. If it weren’t for Yua, he would’ve pulled the trigger, gone through with it. Everything he worked for could go straight to hell if it meant being free. He’d take the win disguised as a loss and rebuild it all from scratch.

But he had a kid. Yua needed him. And damn it, he needed her too. He couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t fail at being her dad. That was unacceptable.

She’d be three soon. Which meant fifteen more years of this hell if his lawyers didn’t come up with something.

Fifteen years, huh?

Grabbing wife-on-paper’s wrist, he threw her hand off his leg, disgusted by her touch. She started whining, bitching, but he tuned her out, mentally withdrawing. Disappearing into that secret place where his fire burned, roared, fed.

Where you also existed. Proof of his sins.

The last time he’d seen you was the night he’d fucked up, looking like a stranger, but something in him still recognized you. And broke the second he realized you’d seen him kissing the last person he should’ve. 

Katsuki didn’t know what the hell possessed him. Public or not, he hadn’t touched wife-on-paper in over a year. She called, asked to meet, and he agreed, deviating from his patrol route, hoping to catch her with something shady. Why else would she be out so late?

What he got instead was a sweet, invasive scent that fogged his brain. It clung to her skin, her hair, her tight black dress. Got him hot. By the time it clicked that something was off, she was kissing him, and his body betrayed him.

Craving the way he did made him stupid. Fooled him that those alcohol-tinted lips were yours. Those cold fingers in his hair were yours. The soft, breathy sounds were yours. 

Until the illusion broke. 

His hands found curves that didn’t match the ones his eyes memorized.

Line by line.

Obsessively.

It was why he jerked back. Why his stomach balled up with nausea. Why his blood froze when he saw you standing there, not far off, lit up by the full moon like divine punishment, tears on your face and dripping to the ground. Resentment blazed bright in your eyes.

What the fuck were you doing there? How? Why?

Just…why?

He wanted answers so badly he nearly forgot wife-on-paper was there and tried to reach you, but she reminded him of her presence, questioning his weird reaction.

“What’s going on? Why are you suddenly acting like this?”

“Nothing.” Katsuki stepped between her and your retreating form. She couldn’t see you. She wasn’t stupid and would link his reaction to you and figure it out. “Go home. Got a patrol to finish.”

She didn’t look convinced, but headed for her car. Katsuki kept pace beside her, body angled like a shield, and only bolted once she vanished around the corner, straight toward where you stood.

He crouched, his gloved fingers brushing over the wet spots dotting the asphalt before snatching the crumpled shirt. The air thickened with that same sweet, invasive scent. Again, Katsuki didn’t resist the pull and inhaled it deep into his lungs. Your scent mingled with it. Intoxicating. Addictive.

Fuck, did it smell good. So good he buried his nose in the fabric, breathing it in like it was the only oxygen left in the world. No thoughts about what it could be or if it was safe. What he was getting high on might as well have been poison.

Each inhale stabbed his pounding heart, but the ache concentrated in his dick. Damn pervert. Damn anomaly. He got hard from smelling your shirt alone, but barely managed a semi from kissing his so-called wife.

Pathetic.

Though, better horny and fooled than confronting reality.

Or so he had thought. His brain couldn’t care less about his feelings and had gone ahead, dissecting every bit of that night, answering some of the questions. 

Wherever wife-on-paper had gone, you were there too. Your fitted, black clothes made it seem like you were out for some late-night walk or jogging, but black and fitted were his go-to for infiltrating places. Adding the disguise on top of it, and boom, he had the overview.

Truth Exposer was on the move.

“Park over there,” wife-on-paper said, pointing ahead as if he were blind. As if his awareness was zero when deep in thought. As if he wasn’t the fucking driver.

Katsuki pulled into the free spot opposite and was out of the car before she was done unbuckling the seat belt, huffing some of the irritation. Shoving both hands into his cargo pants pockets, he clenched the one holding the car key as he glared up at the rooftop restaurant.

Fuck his life.

Then fuck it again because she linked her arm with his, her hand possessively on his bicep.

She forced his steps into a stroll toward the entrance, and he scoffed at her pitiful PR move. People sure had no other hobby than to pull out their phones and snap pictures of them, slapping Dynamight and his wife spotted on a date on it.

Acrid bile coated the back of his throat.

When the hell did it all go so wrong?

The door to his many secrets creaked open. He slammed it shut in an instant, before anything could escape and mock him. He should put one, two, or five locks on it so it stayed shut. Off limits. Otherwise, how was he supposed to fight the noise screaming about who he was, what he’d done, and continued to do?

Katsuki was never a saint, rather someone who fucked up left and right, lately as much as his so-called wife. Maybe worse. He had married her because of Yua, despite checking out of the relationship. The goal was to somehow rekindle the spark, but you entered his life, poured gasoline, and ignited an inferno. Made him a traitor with no remorse.

“Don’t forget our no drinking rule,” wife-on-paper whispered to him as they entered the building. “I can’t drive.”

“You can, but ain’t gonna. Gotta show off to everyone how your husband takes care of you like you’re some fuckin’ queen.”

Her claws pinched into his skin through the sweater. “It benefits you too. God knows you need it.”

The way up to the restaurant was as irksome as he expected. Wife-on-paper gave him yet another pointless lecture about how he had to behave, toss a smile here and there, maybe even show her some affection to make them believable. 

Katsuki rolled his eyes and dragged her after him so he could give his name and head for their reserved table.

The place was mostly open air, covered by a straight wooden roof. Copper lights hung from the beams, casting a warm glow over the whiskey-colored furniture. It was packed, as always, but for damn good reason. Summer was almost over, and this was one of the best places to catch the last moments, where the sky felt close, and it felt like being on top of the world.

Too bad his company was shitty.

He kept his strides long, indulging in the uneven sound of her steps with near sadistic pleasure. Leaning down, he spoke close to her ear. “What’s wrong? Can’t keep up?” 

Bitter bile coated his tongue when she gasped, gazing at him from under her mascara-coated lashes. Pale cheeks reddening. Anyone else would’ve been over the moon to have this effect on their partner after years, but he was sickened by it.

“Want me to slow down for you?”

“You wouldn’t.” Her red lips pursed into a pout. “You’re too much of a jerk.”

“Damn right. I’m fuckin’ excellent at it.”

“If only you’d be that excellent as a husband,” she sighed.

Katsuki snorted and halted mid-step, shaking her hand off as he worked a lopsided, empty grin to his face, crowding her space. She served him that blushing face again, licking her lips. One cruel, hostile feeling flared up deep inside him. What the hell? She wasn’t seriously thinking he’d challenge that statement, drag her out of sight, and prove it, was she?

“Ever crossed your mind I never wanted you as my wife?” he asked, voice low and poisoned. “I married you ‘cause I proved Yua was mine. We broke up, remember?”

Her mask crumbled like this fucking caricature of a marriage would one day. Her clawed hand ripped through the air but stopped an inch from his face. Her chin trembled. Rage deepened and glossed her light blue eyes. 

“Smile, wifey.” He leaned into her palm like her touch kept him alive. Two could play the same fucked-up game. “Before they snap a pic and call it trouble in paradise.”

“How fucking dare—”

“Huh? Kacchan?” 

Katsuki’s head snapped to the voice. 

Izuku stood a few steps away, looking between him and wife-on-paper. Next to him–

Shock tore through Katsuki like a raging vortex, ravaging his mask. By his best friend’s side was you, all pretty, soft, and relaxed. Your eyes locked with his, widening slightly as your lips parted. Your lips that wore a subtle shade he wouldn’t have noticed on anyone else, inhaling a quiet, shaky breath he wouldn’t have heard if it were someone else.

His secrets mauled at the locked door.

“Who else?” Katsuki replied, standing up straight, and forced himself to stop staring at you. “Got yourself a date?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Izuku sneaked a timid glance at you. “We’re having dinner as, uh, friends.”

“What a coincidence. We’re here for dinner too. Would you two like to join?” wife-on-paper asked, snatching Katsuki’s attention.

He almost opened his mouth to fuck no��the idea, but your voice lulled him into silence.

“I don’t mind. What about you, Midoriya?”

“I’m okay with it, if you are.”

“Well, how can I not be…” You trailed off, roping his focus right back to you. Your lips were temptingly curled into a poised smile. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.” You gestured to both him and wife-on-paper. “Being in the presence of such a power couple does that, I guess. You’re even more stunning in real life, Mrs. Bakugou.”

Fuck. His. Life.

Mrs. Bakugou? He wanted to throw up the protein bar he shoved in for lunch. One of the many—tons—you had gifted him to piss him off. The stash he had left should last until the end of the year, and he hated you for it. Forcing him to rent a place just to store the damn things, and sell the stupid truck because the company refused to take it back.

“Thank you,” wife-on-paper responded, hand to her chest, the other slithering over his forearm. “You look lovely yourself, Miss…”

Extending your hand toward her, you spoke your name in such a smooth, confident tone that it made his spine tingle. But when you shook hands with his so-called wife, the sight went straight to his dick. 

Not his the way he’d want, but the one he risked for. Unreal how easily you eclipsed her. Insane how pride blazed through his veins.

Maybe the night wouldn’t be hell, after all.

*

“How did you two meet?”

Katsuki resisted scoffing at the wife-on-paper’s question. As if she gave a damn, and he, personally, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to listen to the story. 

“Coincidence,” you said, gazing at Izuku, whose face flushed a shade deeper. “We bumped into each other during my night walk.”

On second thought, he wanted to know. 

Wife-on-paper mulled over your answer as she sipped her cocktail. “Isn’t that dangerous? I know I wouldn’t dare go for one. And, well,” her fingers glided over his thigh, “Katsuki wouldn’t allow it. He’s a bit overprotective.”

“Got no problem with that.” He clasped her hand and squeezed it in warning. “But you should probably learn how to kick ass. Want me to sign you up?”

You coughed in your fist and squirmed in your seat, your eyes crinkling a little at the corners. To the other two at the table, it could pass for whatever emotion, but not as what it truly was: provocation. 

Katsuki had claimed the chair opposite yours the second you moved toward one, becoming the sight you couldn’t escape. Something must’ve been on his side today; the draped tablecloth was long, covering everyone’s legs. Hiding the truth beneath it.

His leg willingly trapped itself between yours, tensing when your knee knocked against it, or your shoe nudged at his calf. The sensation fed his delusional hope.

“Why, when I have Dynamight himself at my side?” wife-on-paper scooted closer to him, moving her hand to his shoulder, squeezing it in sick affection.

Your delicate laugh filled the air, and it might just be his favorite sound after your voice. “You two are so cute. But to answer your question, Mrs. Bakugou,” you dragged your ankle up his calf. “It’s dangerous, but what do I have to fear? If something were to happen, it will. Plus, I’m confident in my ability to defend myself.”

Katsuki froze like a statue in his seat, his whole body stiffening as he fought the pinpricks of desire. He only had himself to blame. He got himself in this position. He should’ve known better, considering the shared history. From that first post-it you had sent him, it was obvious one part of you lived to piss him off.

But pissing him off wasn’t what you were doing right now.

Teasing.

You were teasing the crazy out of him, and it was working. He wanted to play this game with you so bad, he wished Izuku and wife-on-paper disappeared. He wanted to reach under the table, clasp your ankle—

Shit.

“She can pack quite the punch,” Izuku joined in with praise. “My jaw ached for a few days.”

Katsuki’s brows raised. “You punched this dumbass?” he asked, addressing you directly for the first time since this dinner had started.

“It was my fault,” Izuku responded instead, making his eye twitch. “I should’ve verbally insisted more.”

“Impressive. You must be quite special to catch Midoriya by surprise,” wife-on-paper gave her irrelevant opinion. “Is it your quirk or skill?”

Since when did she care about quirks?

Curiosity spun in his gut like a pinwheel, fanning both his want and the brutal conflict warring within him. You’d lie about it, Katsuki bet. Accessing quirk information about someone was a pain in the ass for a pro hero, let alone a civilian. He waited weeks after submitting his request.

“They called it hyper intuition. Pretty self-explanatory, I guess.”

Izuku’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he grasped your elbow. “That sounds cool. Is it always active?”

The war inside took a turn…for the worse. Something despicable plucked at his nerves, making his anger bubble up like lava. Katsuki snatched the soda glass off the table and gulped it down.

“Sort of. It’s hard to explain.” Your voice sounded somehow different as you explained to his best friend about your fake quirk. Warmer. Sweeter. “Imagine that feeling in your gut, but way more intense. The first time it happened, I felt sick.”

Izuku nodded, moving closer to you. “The intensity. Is it something you can adju—”

“Oi, Izuku,” Katsuki intruded, his tone opposite yours. “Quit nerdin’ out before you scare her away.”

He knew how much of an asshole he was right now, potentially sabotaging Izuku’s confidence to pursue something with you. But that was the problem—you. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t give a damn. He’d go as far as playing Cupid for his best friend without batting an eye.

Helping Izuku get with you? Not a chance in heaven or hell.

He wasn’t blind to the existing interest, at least from his best friend’s side. Hard to tell if you were on that same page when you’d been exchanging body heat with him under the table.

He tracked Izuku’s withdrawing hand, glaring at it like it was responsible for his shitty situation, his impossible desires, his troublesome feelings. That hand had done nothing wrong or out of the ordinary, its gesture harmless, friendly, but in his plagued mind, it was on you. 

Touching. 

Grabbing. 

Learning.

His fingers clutched the empty glass to the point of shattering as his leg pushed against yours, forcing it to open wider. 

“I should.” Izuku let out a short, awkward laugh. He gave you an apologetic bow. “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

The stern glare you shot Katsuki plunged deep into the ugliness he felt before you poured acid on it by offering Izuku a smile that was too honest. Something you had never shown him, and probably never would.

“You haven’t. It’s natural to be curious, and if you ask me, I think it’s healthy to be,” you said. “When curiosity is gone, what’s left?”

Katsuki tore his attention away from you, focusing on the city sprawling far and wide. The lights were dimmer, the sounds muter, the night air colder, the reality crappier. 

It…fucking hurt.

He wasn’t supposed to fight, to throw internal tantrums that bled outside, but accept it for what it was—impossible. You were the impossibility he gravitated toward. His fever dream meant to end. The one person who could make the cat-and-mouse interesting. You hunted him even when he chased you, but slipped off the radar like prey whenever he closed in, restarting the game to repeat it.

And repeat.

And repeat.

And fucking repeat. Over and over. Again and again. 

Saw you on TV. You look like crap. Need a distraction, or maybe, a way out? I can make it happen. 

He dug his fingers into the edge of the table until his knuckles strained. Why the hell was he remembering that? That stupid message you had sent him weeks ago from an untraceable number while he was stuck at some charity party, courtesy of wife-on-paper. Message he had deleted from existence before he was tempted to answer, a mistake he’d made and never learned from.

Moments of weakness were the norm with you. Moments he let himself believe you risked for something other than provoking him. Like…the man behind the hero.

“Your order is here,” the waiter announced, pushing a metal cart toward the table.

Exactly what Katsuki needed to distract himself—forcing food down his throat. Not a night from hell? The joke was on him. This was ripped out of his own personal hell. The kind that dragged painfully slow to torture him, to let him stew in an agony of his making.

Katsuki dismissed any attempts at conversation from wife-on-paper and Izuku with a grunt or an unimpressed stare, his mood at rock bottom, rotting. Not even the perfectly cooked medium rare steak he usually enjoyed could erase the bitter taste on his tongue. Eventually, he withdrew his leg, leaving you alone. Your indifference strangled his heart.

You were too busy giving Izuku the time of day. Maybe the time of night afterward? With that attitude of yours, you’d have no problem convincing a guy to take you to his place. Strip you naked and—

Katsuki shoved away from the table and stood up, the chair scraping the stone floor. “We’re takin’ a cab,” he snapped at wife-on-paper. “Need a damn drink.”

“Wha—Katsuki?”

Two steps. Two goddamn steps was all he managed before you stopped him, the sound of your voice making his hands fist inside his pockets.

“Mind if I come with you?”

“I can get you one, if you’d like,” Izuku, ever the gentleman, intervened.

“I appreciate it, Midoriya, but I got it.” You rose from the chair. “Should I get you something?”

“No. I’m alright. Th—”

“Hurry up,” Katsuki bit out, his patience gone.

“Patience isn't your strong suit?” you muttered as you brushed past him, head held high.

His jaw clenched, and the urge to yank you back and tell you all about his damn patience had his legs filling with lead. How were you doing this? How were you able to pretend you didn’t know him? How could you be so calm around him when he wanted to slam his fists on the table and compromise both of you?

Pausing, you locked eyes with him over your shoulder. “Did you change your mind?”

“No.”

“Hurry up then.”

You were the reason he, one day, would go batshit crazy.

Deserved.

taglist: @lunaryasha | @tomiokasecretlover | @fiselle | @5oftkitty

[mistakenot4892]

Disclaimer that this is a post mostly motivated by frustration at a cultural trend, not at any individual people/posters. Vagueing to avoid it seeming like a callout but I know how Tumblr is so we'll see I guess. Putting it after a read-more because I think it's going to spiral out of control.

Recent discourse around obnoxious Linux shills chiming in on posts about how difficult it can be to pick up computer literacy these days has made me feel old and tired. I get that people just want computers to Work and they don't want to have to put any extra effort into getting it to Do The Thing, that's not unreasonable, I want the same!

(I also want obnoxious Linux shills to not chip in on my posts (unless I am posting because my Linux has exploded and I need help) so I sympathise with that angle too, 'just use Linux' is not the catch-all solution you think it is my friend.)

But I keep seeing this broad sense of learned helplessness around having to learn about what the computer is actually doing without having your hand held by a massive faceless corporation, and I just feel like it isn't a healthy relationship to have with your tech.

The industry is getting worse and worse in their lack of respect to the consumer every quarter. Microsoft is comfortable pivoting their entire business to push AI on every part of their infrastructure and in every service, in part because their customers aren't going anywhere and won't push back in the numbers that might make a difference. Windows 11 has hidden even more functionality behind layers of streamlining and obfuscation and integrated even more spyware and telemetry that won't tell you shit about what it's doing and that you can't turn off without violating the EULA. They're going to keep pursuing this kind of shit in more and more obvious ways because that's all they can do in the quest for endless year on year growth.

Unfortunately, switching to Linux will force you to learn how to use it. That sucks when it's being pushed as an immediate solution to a specific problem you're having! Not going to deny that. FOSS folks need to realise that 'just pivot your entire day to day workflow to a new suite of tools designed by hobby engineers with really specific chips on their shoulders' does not work as a method of evangelism. But if you approach it more like learning to understand and control your tech, I think maybe it could be a bit more palatable? It's more like a set of techniques and strategies than learning a specific workflow. Once you pick up the basic patterns, you can apply them to the novel problems that inevitably crop up. It's still painful, particularly if you're messing around with audio or graphics drivers, but importantly, you are always the one in control. You might not know how to drive, and the engine might be on fire, but you're not locked in a burning Tesla.

Now that I write this it sounds more like a set of coping mechanisms, but to be honest I do not have a healthy relationship with xorg.conf and probably should seek therapy.

It's a bit of a stretch but I almost feel like a bit of friction with tech is necessary to develop a good relationship with it? Growing up on MS-DOS and earlier versions of Windows has given me a healthy suspicion of any time my computer does something without me telling it to, and if I can't then see what it did, something's very off. If I can't get at the setting and properties panel for something, my immediate inclination is to uninstall it and do without.

And like yeah as a final note, I too find it frustrating when Linux decides to shit itself and the latest relevant thread I can find on the matter is from 2006 and every participant has been Raptured since, but at least threads exist. At least they're not Microsoft Community hellscapes where every second response is a sales rep telling them to open a support ticket. At least there's some transparency and openness around how the operating system is made and how it works. At least you have alternatives if one doesn't do the job for you.

This is long and meandering and probably misses the point of the discourse I'm dragging but I felt obligated to make it. Ubuntu Noble Numbat is pretty good and I haven't had any issues with it out of the box (compared to EndeavourOS becoming a hellscape whenever I wanted my computer to make a sound or render a graphic) so I recommend it. Yay FOSS.

[the-teufort-nine]

My TF2 Fic Rec List [ Fanfics I've Read That You Should Too]

*cracks knuckles* right, let's get started! X Reader fics are not included bc I already did a list of them for an ask. Mind the tags and ratings, as always. I'll add to this as I collect more, but its decently long as is

Symbol Key:

** = Incomplete

~~ = Personal favourite

++ = Under 10k

SpeedingBullet:

~~Running Blind by TheTriggeredHappy

(( Scout's eyes are badly damaged in battle and for some reason, Medic's gun can't fix him. Until they figure out how to heal Scout, he needs someone to look after him and keep him safe.

Sniper is given the job.

[3rd person limited, Scout's POV, some character development done on a whim] ))

The SpeedingBullet fanfic. If you like Scout X Sniper, and you haven't read this one yet, I don't know what to tell you. You are severely missing out on not only a great romance story, but also fantastic team dynamics. Also has an available Podfic!

++From a Hospital Bed by SlightlyLessThanAnon

(( Jeremy wakes up in the hospital, his brain struggling the find coherent thoughts as the world churns around him, in and out of consciousness.

He finds the team may care about him a little more than he thought they did. ))

Short but sweet. More whole team fluff than strictly SpeedingBullet. Very cute.

~~Golden Brown, as well as its sister fic, Take Me Out by Ali_Ker (Alina_Kerrin)

(( After seeing his co-worker in a new light, Scout is faced with unknown feelings and a new, distracting perspective on things. ))

This lovely author can be found here under the handle @alikerao3

Grouped these two together because they are they same story, but told from the perspectives of Scout and Sniper respectively. Definitely a bit of a heavier read, especially for anyone who has dealt with Catholic guilt or internalized homophobia, but my God is it worth it. Don't just read one thinking it isn't worth it to read the other fic. Read both. Also, check out the song that inspired the title.

~~Going Through The Motions by AussieBookworm

(( Working under RED can be repetitive at times - but nothing like this. After a curse is fired his way, Scout is forced to live through the same day over and over and over again. It should be easy for someone as perfect as Scout to break the curse, right? As long as he doesn't have to confront the things he's been feeling towards Sniper it should be a piece of cake! ))

Possibly my absolute favourite TF2 fic right now. Scout gets character development out the ass, Demo has a prominent, important role, and there's a plot twist so good it had me tweaking out. TW for Suicide as a method used to get out of a time loop. Absolutely incredible, and it needs more love.

Gills and Gunpowder by popkeeki

(( Monsters are becoming increasingly rare. Between getting pushed to the periphery of society or being targeted by traffickers, life is hard when you are not (entirely) human. Like many others, Scout tries to keep his true form a secret. It has never really been a problem. That is, until a nosy teammate catches him mid-swim. ))

SpeedingBullet Mermaid AU!! Good luck finding a fic with this premise that also reaches this level of quality.

**~~Pet by Anonymous

(( Sniper's terrified of losing the one person he has in his life. It turns out there's a convenient solution to that: just make sure he has no way out, and the rest will follow.

Scout wakes up in a van he knows all too well, loopy and hungover, and Sniper's waiting for him.

*

Or: Learning to live with claustrophobia in small spaces Or: Making the best of assisted living Or: You can’t outrun a fucking bullet ))

Are you like me? Do you enjoy Scout whump and Yandere!/Possessive Sniper? SpyDad? Do you want more of it in your life? If the answer is yes, than Pet is for you! No NSFW, just pure, delicious kidnapping and one-sided love.

General Fanfic Recommendations:

++Something's Up With Respawn by Camelot_taurus, Old Works (HarveyDangerfield)

(( Respawn starts to glitch, and the Administrator sets Engineer to work fixing it.

It doesn't take long for him to find out exactly what's going ))

Super funny, weird little oneshot. Basically, Respawn starts glitching and producing fucked up, Paperjam Dipper-esque clones of the Mercs.

++Mask Off by MatryoshkaDoll413

(( Scout is sick. Really sick. 'If we can't get this fever under control it's the hospital or the morgue' sick, and Respawn can't help him this time. They'd already tried that. He's gotten so delirious he's fighting Medic every second he's awake, not really lucid enough to remember so much as his own name, much less that of any of the team. Medic is ready to put him under full sedation and try and work things out from there, but Spy has an idea. ))

Wholesome SpyDad fic. Spy actually acts like a dad for once, for his sick little bunny.

~~++Scout, Respond by MatryoshkaDoll413

(( Scout wakes up in a dark, unknown place, with rocks bearing down on him and a spotty recollection as to how he ended up there in the first place. The only thing that keeps him sane is the voice of his team in his ear, telling him to talk, to breath, and, more than anything, to stay awake. ))

Scout gets trapped beneath a collapsed building, and receives comfort from his team over his headset while they race to dig him out. Super cute, definitely a must read, and I've done so more than once.

pick it all up (and start again) by bugbee

(( The clues had always been there, he had just never wanted to see them. Maybe neither of them had, instead content to deny the truth before their eyes for the rest of their days because it was better than confronting the alternative. Except Scout had died, and Spy wasn’t able to keep on pretending for his last moments. A part of Jeremy was glad for it, despite the simmering rage and betrayal and hurt. So when he tried to look God in the eye and tell Him that Tom Jones was his father… He couldn’t. Not really.

(Scout discusses his parentage with God, and stays dead for a little while longer. Well. A lot longer. On the plus side, he gets to attend his own funeral reception.) ))

An alternate take on Scout's death from the comics. Very Scout centric, obviously, and ends happily.

~~A Little Bird Told Me… by the_soup_specter

(( Medic learns a secret— something personal, powerful, big enough to cause a rift in the team of mercenaries that could tear two of them apart. And for once in his life… he’s not sure how to proceed.

With no better ideas, Medic decides to ask his fellow mercenaries for advice. But as dueling viewpoints begin to pile up, will he be able to make a decision before the team is changed forever? ))

Medic learns Spy is Scout's dad, and spills the beans. Everything turns out ok, but man the aftermath initially ain't pretty.

~~seven times he has to explain (and one time he doesn’t have to) by conner_is_alive

(( the trans scout obsession has me in a vice

also if i don’t vent my trans sadness i will literally rip a government building down brick by brick lmao ))

The fic that made me a trans Scout believer. If you're on the fence about that headcanon, maybe give this fic a read.

**~~Kith And Kin by BOREDGrace23

(( Mick never thought much of the BLU team. They were just clones, after all. Designed to be their opponents in a meaningless war.

That's why when he woke up, his vision blurry, his brain blistering from a headache like he'd just woken up from a hangover, and several burning questions about what had happened, he thought it was strange that they hadn't killed him already.

//

Or, BLU are clones and RED are decidedly not. They’re then forced to work together when their teams disappear. ))

If you like Emesis Blue, or horror in general, go read Kith And Kin. And when you finish, go give @boredgrace23 some love for such an incredible fic.

**++Der Junge by UpInFlamesWriting

(( Everyone on the team knows that Scout & Medic do not get along. They're like Sniper & Spy, except less bloodthirsty about it. Medic scares Scout, & Scout doesn't give Medic a reason to like him. When the two of them start being more than friendly all of a sudden, the team starts to worry, especially when it becomes obvious that Medic & Scout are keeping secrets from them. Scout & Medic are not about to tell the rest of the team that they are a pair of transsexual men, especially when Medic agrees to help Scout in his transition. For all the weirdness that goes on in the base, the world is not kind to queer people, & they aim to keep the reason behind their friendship a secret, even if it kills them. ))

Trans Scout and Trans Medic solidarity fic. I need more of this.

Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler by ChaosandMayhem

(( When Respawn malfunctions and their annoying Scout is turned into something far more precocious, it'll take all of the RED team's wits and patience to look after him. At the same time, Engineer must find a way to turn Scout back into an adult before the BLUs-or anyone else-realizes what's happened. No pairings, just a bunch of exhausted trained killers and one hyperactive child. ))

An Ancient Text from 2012 and the only FF.Net fic on this list, EMaAT is a classic for me. Lot's of Spy backstory, if memory serves. Quotes from this live rent free in my mind.

PracticalEspionage:

++Under the Lake by Her_AngelEyes

(( Engineer goes fishing. Hilarity ensues. ))

Don't let the description fool you. This is a non-con/mind break fic. If you like darkfic stuff, than this is for you~